Ramadan Nocturne

The overpass’s graffitied asphalt

drapes heavy shadows over cars

always on their way elsewhere,

while the humid city continues

to glisten with the bodies of men

& women, men & men, women

& women shimmering across each

other: all taut muscle, untouched

by so many soft or calloused palms,

fingernails bitten down to the quick

or scraped down a sweat-brocaded

torso. Forget the sounds of glass

shattering, the alleyways I hurry

past, hunger a thin blade knifing

my body cleaner. Forget the shadows

of bodies pressing against bricks

bright with fungus green as a ribbon

a young girl might twirl between her

fingers after shaking her dark hair

free. Forget this schizophrenic I still

see, years now—forget his voice

burning past me. Bitch, I need

you. Bitch. I need, I need, he moans,

& though I know it’s not me he wants,

the night is a varnished, peeling wall

against which I, too, want always

to be roughly pressed. How many

other nights he’s stumbled across

this heat-neoned sidewalk, pleading

with someone else who isn’t there—

I’d like to lead him somewhere, maybe

offer him a smoke, calm his shuddering,

but I’m too afraid: afraid of the dark

stains rivering shadows on the clothes

hanging his gaunt frame, afraid to admit

I’m just another privileged girl sitting

of hard voices strafing the hot air heavy:

thigh, throat, clavicle, crook of elbow,

curve of breast, bitch, I need, I need—

& there’s no forgetting those summers

spent sleeping underground in that peach-

carpeted basement, no forgetting how

my sister’s small body was still safe

& warm beside me the night I heard

footsteps that weren’t mine, hers, or our

parents. I took her smaller hand in mine,

waited until dawn, when the footsteps

finally ceased: dream-summoned or

ghostly, I will never know. But what

does that have to do with lips, vulnerable

tug of earlobe, palms pressed down

on palms? I need, I need, & the hunger

inside me is not for food but for flesh,

& there’s no forgetting that the body

belongs neither here nor anywhere, not

in childhood’s bed nor the adult one I slide

alone into after praising again Your name,

Lord. As if anything ever belonged to us,

as if even him or his body I invite into

my own belongs—as if this man I still see

roaming the streets is some sign You sent

that will change my life if only I paid more

attention. As if he belongs only to my life,

rather than his own. Answer me, Lord—

why my sister is now the ghost I imagine

stepping lightly across the fresh-mopped

floors of strangers, their children below

still breathing quiet through long summer

nights brushed red with the adagios

of cicadas. Tell me why being human

must be so lonely. Why this man I cannot

help but turn to watch turns now to no one

beside him, tries to embrace whatever

phantom no longer belonging to a body.

Tell me why You made it so that taking

a kiss full on the mouth also feels like

weeping: the helpless swell, its delicious

spill. I need, I need. Take, then, as You

took her, too: take the morning’s sandpaper

sunlight in which I will wake again to offer

You another day of hunger. Take from me

its razored insistence thrumming inside this

body You made for any manner of breaking.