Two

There were always two parts,
two poles, two tambourines, two morsels,
entirely separated,
constrained in some ways,
but equally inconsistent.
One part was fleshy,
bloody and torn;
The other had pools of water and syrup.
Ancestry holds no value in this story,
insisting on performing pirouettes
In a car park was not a motif,
But the action of a beggar:
stupefaction and thirst.

I thought the part with syrup
would secrete antinomians or
subversion, but bees,
bumblebees and other flying insects
were consumed by the nectar.

The other part was brutally disposed of.
Flesh became texture, remains,
soot.
The blood did not travel after a short
time; bodies lost their shape,
eyes disappeared as the sockets filled
with buildings standing
before the detonation.
And I couldn’t tell how many
were dead or alive, as the two parts
were the same.
When I tasted the dust in my mouth,
rather than running, I stayed.
Even my own death would not have felt liberation,
but another prediction—
expected, but only as an estranger
would wash your feet, massage your neck
in a dream, in your imagination,
leaving when her hands were tired.

I examined my body carefully
it was still intact.