The Dog at the Mosque

His body wrenched close
to the chalk wall
and scoured the desert bone
of worship’s layered years
with his hairless ribs.

We smiled
when his tail ticked.
As his soiled eyes rolled white and wild,
we bent to touch his writhing belly.

We froze
when his twisted neck opened
the red-crusted hole where worms slid
over flightless flies.

“How did he get here?” someone asked,
remembering the steep, houseless climb.
Someone poured water on his tongue
and it foamed dry dirt.

On our drive to Cairo
we had seen robed men
weeping outside of cave-like houses,
and bone people pulling water wheels
beneath the drenching Delta sun,
and pajama boys mooning us
and giving us the finger
with welcoming grins.

Cairo burned in our air-conditioned hearts.
“Allah will save him,” someone said.