Ramadan Nocturne
The overpass’s graffitied asphalt
drapes heavy shadows over cars
always on their way elsewhere,
while the humid city continues
to glisten with the bodies of men
& women, men & men, women
& women shimmering across each
other: all taut muscle, untouched
crevice still hidden by cotton or lace,
wet back of knee naked or clothed
by so many soft or calloused palms,
fingernails bitten down to the quick
or scraped down a sweat-brocaded
torso. Forget the sounds of glass
shattering, the alleyways I hurry
past, hunger a thin blade knifing
my body cleaner. Forget the shadows
of bodies pressing against bricks
bright with fungus green as a ribbon
a young girl might twirl between her
fingers after shaking her dark hair
free. Forget this schizophrenic I still
see, years now—forget his voice
burning past me. Bitch, I need
you. Bitch. I need, I need, he moans,
& though I know it’s not me he wants,
the night is a varnished, peeling wall
against which I, too, want always
to be roughly pressed. How many
other nights he’s stumbled across
this heat-neoned sidewalk, pleading
with someone else who isn’t there—
I’d like to lead him somewhere, maybe
offer him a smoke, calm his shuddering,
but I’m too afraid: afraid of the dark
stains rivering shadows on the clothes
hanging his gaunt frame, afraid to admit
I’m just another privileged girl sitting
back to count the world’s endless sorrows.
Cars blast by: earthquake of bass, crackle
of hard voices strafing the hot air heavy:
thigh, throat, clavicle, crook of elbow,
curve of breast, bitch, I need, I need—
& there’s no forgetting those summers
spent sleeping underground in that peach-
carpeted basement, no forgetting how
my sister’s small body was still safe
& warm beside me the night I heard
footsteps that weren’t mine, hers, or our
parents. I took her smaller hand in mine,
waited until dawn, when the footsteps
finally ceased: dream-summoned or
ghostly, I will never know. But what
does that have to do with lips, vulnerable
tug of earlobe, palms pressed down
on palms? I need, I need, & the hunger
inside me is not for food but for flesh,
& there’s no forgetting that the body
belongs neither here nor anywhere, not
in childhood’s bed nor the adult one I slide
alone into after praising again Your name,
Lord. As if anything ever belonged to us,
as if even him or his body I invite into
my own belongs—as if this man I still see
roaming the streets is some sign You sent
that will change my life if only I paid more
attention. As if he belongs only to my life,
rather than his own. Answer me, Lord—
why my sister is now the ghost I imagine
stepping lightly across the fresh-mopped
floors of strangers, their children below
still breathing quiet through long summer
nights brushed red with the adagios
of cicadas. Tell me why being human
must be so lonely. Why this man I cannot
help but turn to watch turns now to no one
beside him, tries to embrace whatever
phantom no longer belonging to a body.
Tell me why You made it so that taking
a kiss full on the mouth also feels like
weeping: the helpless swell, its delicious
spill. I need, I need. Take, then, as You
took her, too: take the morning’s sandpaper
sunlight in which I will wake again to offer
You another day of hunger. Take from me
its razored insistence thrumming inside this
body You made for any manner of breaking. 
Aubade Ending with the Death of a Mosquito
Elegy with Her Red-Tipped Fingers
Ramadan Nocturne