Guilt or Dread What An Amazing Instrument You…

Pulling the foreign body off me—

out of the dress up over my arms through the neckhole—

he says, You are more beautiful than a school spelling prize.

Muezzin sirens us to break the fuck

into a run; the banquet table taps her feet in disapproval.

It's bride season.

I'm his take on the call to prayer.

His sister sticks a sapphire in her ear for emphasis.

Brothers like whiskered pears wanting kisses they already got

stand well behind the language barrier.

The Fair Queen imitated

an everyday and normal love for this the first occasion of my lips

at her translucent cheek, twice, his whole smell on me,

alarms, up and down my tunic.

She changes her mind out there on the balcony in full view of everyone.

What sounds from the street like storytime, like sing-song,

turned out to be a species of hostage-taking.

Next year by this season, at best

I am the paper confetti is punched from,

the holes left that other joys straddle.

Source: during (Gaspereau Press, 2008)