With a loud bang,
I’m off

and zoom through the air,
death’s faithful bee.

Was I meant
for someone else?

Or was the sniper startled
by her domestic gestures
at the top floor?

It doesn’t matter now.

A soft splash
into her flesh

and I’m in.

Easy.

The body breathes
and folds

and the shirts billow
and flap

their white,
surrendered sleeves.

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Mourning black
were the women’s headscarves,
like crows perched on their heads,

and the graffiti smeared on walls:
“Peace to you,
our dead.”

We colored the air
red-yellow-blue
with chants
and lit candles.

We walked,
empty-handed.

They colored the darkness
with tracers,
tanks, and guns,
the bullets’ glowing criss-cross.

The sky over the city
was clotted maroon,
the color of blood stains,
of fear.

White smoke,
gray splinters,
green shards of broken glass,

dark brown,
shards of men.

The next day
was silent blue light.

We filled its outlines with the newest color,
the bells’ clear hue.

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I turn on the barrel’s faucet
and fill the pot with its slippery,
slinky eyes.

On the stove, the wine
fizzes and simmers
in a low voice,
thickened by sugar and cloves.

A crumble of cinnamon bark,
a length of lemon peel,

and my lover will leave the long roads,
leave out the winter’s dogs

and walk in from the cold,
frost-bitten, red nose.

The wine belly dances
on the stove
and twirls veils
of alcohol and spice:

Let me in, let me in.

I pour the brew into cups,
and night draws in, sweeter.

Lift it to your lips, love,
and take it all in
as if you’re drinking Christmas.

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You recognize neighbors,
a cousin—
Old Neculai dead?
His son, too, at 50?

Weeds tangled,
fiery cosmos and marigolds,
burnt candles,
plastic wreaths.

Don’t pick the flowers,
I tell Dana too late.

She pulls at the blue chicory
growing from the eyes
of the dead,

uproots gaillardia,
fringes of their blankets,

and dry grasses
out of their bones.

For you, she says,
and gives me the bouquet,

then blows off the head
of a dandelion,

sending little soul seeds
into the wind.

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