Civilization and Its Discontents
Moth eaten and ruinous:
the Arabic rug we once sat cross-legged on,
eating Chinese from tiny origami boxes.
You spilled red wine in the corner once,
that time we fell into peals
of laughter
over something you’d said,
knees knocking together and apart.
I’d lie on the rug and think of Egypt,
dry sand dry mouth,
the heat of your gaze masking as
the Saharan sun
burning into me. I’d stay and practice my technique
of avoidance.
You’d relay verbatim the love notes from diner napkins,
and I’d count out the inadequacies
on my toes; run my hands up and down the carpet
and proclaim I wanted to take it with me.
When it began to unravel it started in the center,
“things fall apart; the center cannot hold,”
but what most do not know,
is that it begins at the center;
it begins at the beginning,
it starts when I say hello.
