N.R.M.

The surge: my feeling of the narrative was quelled, in bergamont.

It regressed
infinitely, until the snapshot of the gallop
was taken, made beloved and framed,
walking-wishing-galloping
upon the wing of a summertime wave.

I remembered
the tastes of cities
like dreams of curry, like dreams of soap.

We worshiped the sky like it had become the sun, as if it had transformed
to the sacred baskets of texts,
to the holy feet of missionaries;
I wept into their hands and they ordained me.

The man's arms became ropes and I felt his semantics,
his lungs aided him
in the acceptance
of the pears
of their religion.
I wanted to kiss him.
I became like a jeweled fig. I was pale. I was a pistachio.
In becoming, I was the secret, the child, the figure in the carpet.

We,
the man and I, broke into the temple.
We drank
to the calligraphers, to the songs of sorry-constellations,
to war,
to lemons in our hearts,
to the stark while of the walls.

His skin was a disruption, so I gave him woven lace.
He buried me in the center of a stone, I told him he was
a citadel,
and that he was bright

and timid.