A bomb has exploded
in a popular tourist market in Cairo,
killing four people.
The radio voice glass-smooth,
she has no daughter in Cairo.
There are fifteen million people
in Cairo, he says,
gliding marmalade to each edge
of his toast.
(But does it help to know the odds
if you are the one ?)
I cannot go there.
Cannot place her lovely face
in a Time photo-essay of
debrised stalls, red-sodden alleys, body bits.
She's probably already left, I say.
Her email last night spoke of dancing,
buying a fabulous outfit
in the market.
Yet she dislikes Cairo.
A swell of male street harassment
has sent her back to the hotel alone,
in tears.
Alone I check her itinerary.
She leaves Cairo on the 10th – their time.
Today is the 8th – our time.
I am here. You are there.
And there are those who desire you -
dead.
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