Like lions we circle. A sundew plant dangles.
Green neck with long curling filaments
unfurling like steam in a chemist’s test tube.
I want the slow awakening, that life of marveling,
to follow a man down a dark hallway, watch him dip
his face, his neck, into the water, flicking it over his
wrists. I want god, I want God, to bury myself
towards the swarming. Tomatoes
or cucumber, the market stall was paltry today, squash
bruised to touch, the fingerling potatoes muddy.
I like them with pepper, a crumbling of baguette.
We light taper candles to give the meal
a crown. The sangria you made with ice
and lemon and real cane sugar. I fish out morsels of
cherry and apple with bare fingers.
What we do not say crowds us with manic teeth:
the failing light, the junkyard coffins,
the forests receiving bodies like wife.
The names, they shutter with distant lights:
Gaza. Homs. Alexandria. O, Damascus.