Thom Ward
Of course it’s the moment
all lovers hope to reach
between cigarettes and the work
of each other’s buttons.
In nursery school
you hung out with its pals
enchantment and wonder,
stacked blocks, spread paint.
After the explosion, the sweep
of bullets through the market,
it takes up shop in your throat.
Looks like you were lucky
enough to survive the errant
missile. Grab a chair, my friend,
the one covered with dust,
and it will buy you a drink.
Oh, yes, did I mention? —
the hole in the rope
from which the body dangles,
the gaze of an ape.
