Translation

A bead of condensation 

slides down the side 

of a half-drunk iced tea, 

seeping into a paper napkin

printed with the American flag.

Empty cups and grease-smeared plates

are strewn across the floor. Outside, night 

has wrapped the season’s heat in its starless sleeve

and traffic fades beneath the soft horns 

of a warped record. 

They are twenty-six and twenty-eight

and you are nothing. 

A hand slips, hair hangs 

across faces warmed with wine. 

Their lips pronounce a new imperative

with hips that rock and eyes

like those of slinking cats

until something is conveyed

from such depths that it must contain—

what? Multitudes? They would struggle

to understand this, you broken translation, 

but to read you is for me no trouble:

The warmth of the room, your fetal form 

backlit by a distant and implausible star.