I try not to think about
getting gunned down
in the holiday market.

I try not to think about
subway grenades or suicide
bombs or slender
guns tucked in a duffel bag.

Happier times, I think. Happier times:

When you all shared a meal
of canned corn and beans
over rice in the church
that night. Smiles, white teeth,
the glow of cheap wine
in your cheeks. It all went to shit
by the end of the show
per usual. Still

You are not the fucked world
You are something apart

Something once fuzzy now packed
into cans. I find you so toothsome
the man in the room
has to pull me hard by the jaw
to unfasten
my eyes