And what shall we name him / an eggplant in the ubiquitous joints / an addendum to Andalusia / a troubled succession of vowels to plague the white horse we rode on like a mouse / twice flung / we followed on foot / the sidewalk was hood after hood or teeth an accent barred from being / elected president / we mulled it over the wild blue rasp / stuck to the end of a straw / whose back / we had to break / buy a house displace out of an up and coming district / and in the organic market / spelled / in line for power that had gone out / for eggs ice and dairy / we could afford what the cashier couldn’t / an aubergine / a nicotine-filled berry
If it were autumn the leaves would in their butterfly dance belly up as they hit the grass and become reservoir for rain or dew or black boots that ask you about your father: your sweat rolls like grape leaves or rosary beads neglected in some trinket box your great grandmother bought from Mecca a century ago, having counted the pillars in the mosque as evidence she’d been there. Some idle talk on the bus. And in comes the cockroach in his summer trunks fibrillating his limbs to an atavistic rhythm while your neighbor’s leg hairs are weeping willows in the compound pool. In the blue bus that swallowed the heat the heat was a leavened carcass. But your father knew the rules: you’re still a minor, and water still had dreams for you in wooden cartons on Thursday afternoons, figs the likes of which you haven’t tasted since.