we sit,

letting latte sugar
harden,
in coffee-less
cups,

chit chatting,

feeling “alchemistry.”
we darken dusk,

& **** light
out of glowing “OPEN”
signs,  

then blow galaxies
out the sunroof

as we listen to Lauryn
Hill. her lyrics
levitate.  

a tasseled red heart,
dangles

from the rear view
angled, just right.

i, at her glance,

stare
hapless, like the moth
chasing moon

light, beyond glass…

Ablution of the dead,
the washing
of the body
is called ghusl
in Islam; Judaism
calls this taharah.
But how
does one bathe
an infant,
a tangle of intestines
from eyes of the witness,
or clean
coagulated collages
of massacre?
How
does one carry
charred carcasses
from beds
& not call a moment,
another grave
in the cemetery?
How
does one leave space
for ablution
of a body
inside a missile,
or rinse
blood from the city
bombs cremated?
How
does one wash this?
How
does one prepare this
for a return to God?