Love, we’ve made it 

from checkpoint to checkpoint. Please, don’t try to kiss me      

 

in front of the window. I prefer the mirror’s reflection: 

a silver lake. I’ll never be gold — never                

 

the conductor inside the computer 

or the MRI machine; nor the chime of gold bangles. 

 

Silver clinks like sājāt, like Sito could’ve taught 

me. Sito’s dilated pupils the darkest 

 

deposits in this monochrome 

photograph. Like A Christmas Story, 

 

might I become a beloved lampshade with legs? 

A nimbus cloud cut into a crop top? I will 

 

hide my face for good this time. You keep coming back 

to our final act: kissing in front of the window, 

 

you insist, Habib/x, please. You remind me: 

there’s power in numbers; like a murder in the winter, 

 

waiting in an oak tree. You say, like the crow, 

we’ve entered a Stone Age. The crow elicits an absence 

 

of light—a hole in our sky where the brightest reds 

once hung. Our tool can disappear a haji. As in, 

 

under the table, we scatter silver 

across our bodies. A good set of silverware: 

 

one utensil for hunger & one for vanishing. 

Habib/x, you say, why do you think 

 

I’ve been dropping forks all night? Our dinner 

eaten by LED Edison bulbs—their low wattage 

 

still registers in the viewfinder. A walkie clicks,   

the fire is out…             Shoot for safety.