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Underwear Bomb
Not a place I’d hide
hard tubes and wires, a temperamental
trigger. Too much junk
amidst the coiled nest
of me. Leave the fever
of religious fervor in vests
and markets of the middle
east, dusty baskets
of snakes that sway
to a fakir’s siren song.
No, our midnight flight
never leaves the ground, the backseat
on a quiet street, fingers
on our fuses as we swear
oaths into each other’s ears.
::
speaking as a semite I
a placid oasis of palm and date
the pillowy sand that curves
from the water and rises I
a Salome of fingers sideways
fluttered stolen and kohl-
rimmed darkness brimming
in dance and gesture I
in this new world apostate
renamed and fallen from
that slender tree seedling
scatterling like night or smoke
I and the sand and the dust.
And I the sinuous
serpent, parched
and famished, flexing
belly-wise across
the heated sand, onyx eyes
always on the succulent
dates dangling just
beyond my reach.
x 12
A burning need remainsAre we sure about this? I still have that Yeats infection from before.
Are we sure about this? I still have that Yeats infection from before.