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!
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,
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.
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.”