There are bare-breasted women lounging in the unmade bed of my mind. They teach me chords on the piano, and how to stay grateful in the face of time; how it lingers between seconds, but years go by unannounced.
We don't make love. We ****, taking back each wasted Sunday spent talking to G-d, or waiting for political truth. They run their fingers over my back, send me to a sleep of dried sweat and loving violence. They send me sunflower seeds and ****
in the post, so I can bloom by the open window and feel warmth through winter. There are powerful women laying down the law by the clock tower. They stand up for Syria and challenge the authority I had conjured in my mind.