Granada
I recall it life-sized, to my left, beside the altar:
Isabella’s royal foot treads on an Arab neck,
triumph of Los Reyes Catolicos.
The man’s eyes howling.
That was the week of Abu Ghraib. A tv in my room
showed the US soldier’s equal triumph,
trampling her captives. Twenty years ago.
Echo of our futile marches, awareness
of my place among the voiceless, pinned me,
Rough Guide in my hand, to this same front row
where I’m seated now. No life-sized statue,
just a stained-glass image high above the Altar,
made three-dimensioned by illusive memory
and twenty years of televised barbarities.
I hand back my audio guide, go out into the candid sun,
the smell of spices, almond trees.