If a virgin is tossed into a dormant volcano
how long does it take her to burn?
Consumed by the fire god, along with fish tacos
doused in hot sauce at some unholy Brooklyn dive,
where Vampire Weekend plays in the background &
the bartender makes a drink called Last Words,
with vodka, mint & fresh lime juice.
I walk around the city noticing all the things that are dead:
newspapers, stalled cars, plants, conversation,
fish splayed on beds of ice, manners, poetry,
cow flesh wrapped in plastic in the meat department,
the expressions of people riding the E train.
The taco place is a cafe now.
One last walk through the slap of memory:
Weak sunshine on cherry blossoms & then
Rain again. Smearing graffiti and susceptible hearts,
Trembling on branches, the dripping a blurry kiss.
Hyacinths force their wild blue faces from a jar on someone’s terrace.
You have stolen spring.