[for Milad:]

the last time we spoke, you

demanded

why I had not called you back

(and in doing so, answered

your own question)

perhaps you simply feared

losing a kindred soul

in a city that devours

but I, who had packed my Gypsy wagon
countless times, and begun

anew, chafed

at your perceived possessiveness

I think of you still

a fleshwarm statue of bronze, inkstrokes

and expensive cologne, in a stranger land

than all the golden groves of Jordan 

could have dreamed 

in their sunswept reverie

and I, an un-American

in the most American of cities

sharing olives

between our gloved hands

Photo Credit: CarbonNYC [in SF!] Flickr via Compfight cc



Rachael Convery

Rachael Convery is a Classicist, Maker, and Scholar;
follower of Sappho and Anne Carson;
devotee of Beauty and the wildancient gods;
seeker of the sacred and profane;
lighter of candles upon the altars of the lost;
daughter of savagedivine wolves;
keeper of forgotten histories;
lover of small, grand, and delicate things…

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