Fumes burn and float from a piled slaughter
of bodies on the lobby’s OLED T.V.
But do not breach my nose. White-coated, a waiter
pours charcoaled coffee. Gold in his teeth gleam, sun-bright
as the hotel’s camel logo on his chest. Before it cools,
I’d better butter my toast, to better swallow it.
God, there’s no god among butchered bodies.
Arabs do not eat ham; neither do Jews. So
alike, the two, both hold Abraham’s vow:
wrist ready to rip, knife at his son’s throat.
Fickle, are Christians the worst of the three?
How is God singular, or male, or any
human thing? From the edges of my lips
saliva drips as a crisp bacon strip
crumbles in my mouth, and the warm wet yolk
breaks yellow from the pouch of a poached egg
as a chicken’s succulent embryo slather
glides down my red throat like a long wet knife.
