The green of this room reminds me
that hope still exists in each new
split of the crusted soil.
We place it there like sugar
to sweeten a bitter drink,
make it a rich
and complicated cup. Aren’t these
the words we wrap the unpalatable
in as we wrap
around each other? After the fighting
that scared the dog,
after the awful depth
and distance of silence, we fall to bed
not for sex but harmless
talk of dreams,
dinner on a tray and sleep,
our holding less fierce,
more an extra blanket
pulled against the cold.
This night, I know
I cannot love you
the way you want—perfectly,
an answering “ohm,”
the bowl’s singing reflection
so I pull you closer, spoon you,
watch the snow of New Year’s Eve fall
on the roof outside.
Somewhere, people have on party hats,
are practicing a collective brand
of hope, counting their way down
to 1: how similar to ‘I,’ how it could be
the letter looking over its shoulder
at something past.
I wish I were in Paris
drinking with Hemingway
at Les Deux Magots
but I am in Paris
at a makeshift desk typing
while a father gurgles vowels,
his child shrieking, sound
and the smell of chicken trapped
in the courtyard, doing laps.
Someone reaches out her window
for potatoes. Above me
is a painting of rug merchants
in a souk. The street is a swarm
of mustard dots,
the earth ticking left
as they argue price.
I see the minaret lean,
doorways start, then
disappear like ghosts
into stone and blue birds escape
from the sky.
Only the camel knows
what it wants as it turns
from the haggling
toward a nearby arch
and tilts its head as if to listen.