I live in a city encircled by fire.

The ants are buzzing.

I’ve acquired a rifle from the honeymaker’s son,

who’s late to the wedding

again. Every time mother washes her hair

down the drain, a plate of figs appears

on my ottoman. They’re sweet as children

in a river of mud

with their mouths open wide like baby birds

on an autopsy table. Little fluorescent ribs

smoke like a notion of home. I was there once,

in the retina of a mouse, helpless

as a horse on springs, dead man’s face

on the pillow next to mine.

Nothing will ever taste as good as that.

I’ve run out of ice. My spoons

are losing blood.