The Hen Upstairs

A woman of Senegal stands at the corner of a large piece of cloth. Straw hats of different sorts are displayed on three fourth of the cloth, the fourth fourth hosts beads and bracelets made of ceramic beads or wood of different colours. A tourist woman walks by in a stream of other tourists on their way to a grotto. A bracelet in brown and green catches her attention. She stops half way through the cloth length to have a look. She picks the bracelet. It is composed of two kinds of beads: the cubes altered with smaller spheres. There are green circles on each side of each square of each cube. The woman puts the bracelet on her writs, protrudes her arm while moving her head backwards to see better. Apparently, 

The naked eye can see that the cat isn't well. The white-furred body lying on its side, spread btwn two potted rhododendrons of a white-chaired and white-tabled café, head supported on the front poughs. The body of the cat asleep, or so it seems. A thin springlet of blood, nearly impossible, half-dried, on its way from the closed mouth to the chin becomes visible at a closer look. A tourist stops and leans towards the cat. A moment of hesitation appears between her and the animal.  She takes a picture, will carry it home across the continent.

Where is the train carrying her in its belly? Which sea does it measure on its cruise, this shark-shaped steal creature painted in blue and white? What mother of pearl has hidden inside its only passenger? What pearl has got taken out? Odd-shaped, irregular, hardened? Or a soft-muscled clod of a body that now belongs to nobody? Where's her womb, her ovaries, her fallopian tubes? What's become of them, once prosperous, thriving, full of aspiration? What's her destination, does she know? Was it up to her to choose it? When will she arrive, and where? Will she know?

Looking at olive trees out of the blue she remembers lupin. Violet fields of them, gatherings of pink. Who is she? Where does she come from? Where's she going?