I remember, I wrote each day

about my belly and my bladder and

wiping down the beer counter at Lindy’s.

Volume and volume listing drinks to be spilled

and napkins to be bloodied;

guest checks, mostly: “rum and sprite!

four cosmos!

double black and blue with no tomato

no bacon medium done— a UTI?

Or just true love?

Scrubbing, I compare:

Majnoun the mad, spinning in the iced tea tin,

Leyla, just an idea, a reflection on the wet floor,

freshly mopped.

Fatima’s silver hands, five pillars of 

الله الله الله الله الله 

—just the way my jiddu sang it when he was angry,

five times, yes, just like that—

a fighter’s lovesweat and a djinn’s lovejuice

and something to do with mothers

and oh, two more, both mysteries.

Secret names.

The guest checks answer:

“Davy Crocket, no onions:

Beloved and understood seldom go hand in hand.

Two diet cokes, two Burl Ives and:

all of this came to me on the toilet.”