i was watching the underside of a slim bayou gecko
hunting down moths, and winning.
you were in the turquoise hammock, the woven sling with pink stripes,
reading the Times Picayune under Christmas lights – the only ones
anyone bothered to wire up
in that screened box where wood met water.
“God is Telling Us to Stop” was the headline on your page,
a plea that begged for citizens to stop burning The Qur'an
that somehow got less page space
than a shoe advertisement for Dillards.
i tried to be interested in the purpose of the piece,
and in the purpose of peace,
and in all the important pieces of the world gone spinning mad,
but got distracted by the sound of frogs,
and by wanting to join you in your sling,
and by wanting to unpeel you there
like an exotic fruit.
i did not, of course. instead
i kissed the back of your neck
and your hand went absently to my knee
while the creaking fan underscored
wet fish and cicadas.
“God is Telling Us to Stop,”
there at the top of your page.