the patio vine. Everyone reaching
for words to describe them, all garlic
lemon on the tongue. Why did he talk
to her like that? Washing,
spreading the leaves open,
veins pointed up. Grandma's tongue
a Beirut convent, Grandpa's tongue
planted between his teeth, biting off
his Arabic. It was pride,
the way they held
or lashed their tongues. Spooning spiced rice
into the palm. Folding the base
inward to center. Grandpa scolded a cusser:
what kind of language is that? Aroma
of arms. Tucking the wings in
—but unwinding, undone in young fingers.
I can't keep them all together. Laying torn leaves
to blanket the pot. Years later, lying in
my father's room, in summer's
oven, I heard them, whispering, in their bed. Beyond
the wall, all embers and breathing.