42
Kisses From The Horsewoman

I felt your back muscles, the tendons.
I tried to argue with the merchant in Cairo,
claiming that there was something much finer
than the ornamented Persian rug
he was trying to vend me.
He halted,
turned ornery,
called me an "American faggot”
and threw a handful of salt in my eyes.
Even with this limitation to my vision,
I still argued and begged
that your skin was much finer.
Finally, he claimed that I was a god
(in politically incorrect Arabic)
and blew smoke in my face.
I flew off, because he granted me such power.
I ended up drinking bottled water from a European spring
while the sun went down,
remembering the advice I once gave you,
while the color of the sky
matched the color of the buildings scattered all around.
O abound, abound,
no shadows are alive, much less, even sleeping.
Do you still sleep on beds of hay,
my horsewoman, you with muscles of horse?



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