stories come easy to him, like water
down a hillside. like light through
amber. like an entombed beetle given life
anew-stretching out his opal shell
and beginning to hum.
you don’t know what we went through.
you’re damn lucky. as kids we would
carry rocks of salt in our pockets
and lick them while leaning against
the pines and we would watch our
own air, float, float, float towards
Moscow then Yerevan then beyond, only for it to
return the next day, empty of news
and promise.
it’s 60 degrees here and you are well
on your way to an electrified panic.
as children we stood in a single
file line at the sweeping head of
a cow with cups and we waited
patiently for the man to slice its
throat and like a fierce dusk
we caught the gushing blood in our
cups as it shot out. and we drank
till our bellies puffed out and we
roared like bear cubs.
we called this, breakfast.
