we don't have to change our religion
or the name plates on our desks
to wear the thorny crown.
you, the dusty crucifix king
and me, napoleon in rags-
spitting up dirt, with jewels in our hands
cursing the gold and kissing the ground
with our office ties still sticking to our necks.
(like flowers to my wrist
and wires from my heart),
floorboards moan and flowers bloom
and the minute hands moves to minus one.
india isn't so far away, my dear.
your gold skin to my pale,
placid reasoning shocks the light
and lights the dark.
my fingers are absent of finery of any sort;
a deed or thought, and less a ring or two.
where's the harm?
the harm, lies deep red on his face
on his lips.
rather than yours, I mean.
you make me smile.
not like those curves so thick with syrup
reserved with a hanging sign for him.
twisted; like the thoughts bolting off my mind
like skeins of cloth away from my figure
(which I always wished was lighter.)
laughing; you always made me laugh
sideways—the way I
never could with him.
the deserts and explosions retreat.
newspapers, cold and lank
remain so on my porch.
sweet Afghanistan, wait a moment
i want to smile today.