Weimar: the Onion Market

for Omar

In the afternoon, time sifts over the street
like sugar, catching in your hair so red like foxes.
It settles on my collarbone, spilling down my dress
as I breath; spilling down my chest as I laugh.

It is not your face that enthralls me as we
wander through the market and weave baskets and notions;
it is your placement in relation to the world.
It is your voice, with the baby-needles of German threaded through it,
the way it rumbles like a friendly lion. It is
your quiet deference, your arms as you hold doors and
your shoulders as they turn to let people pass.
The air is full of cranberry-fragrance, nuts crumble
and fruits bruise underfoot. Speckled, the smells
of meat and music move jauntily through the crowd.
It is not your body I am drawn by (I am antiquated)
but where you take it; the sun spun off a historical spindle
pushes itself into your mouth, lemon-flavoured cotton.