with a single touch
I pulled you out of the grave, out of the air,
out of the belly of a forgotten tank,
lord Gilgamesh,
just to offer you a cup of hot tea
carried with effort all the way from India—
a tea we mistakenly call “arabic.”

the arabesque, in fact,
was found only on walls.
you were too busy back then
when sculpture was forbidden,
when poetry, music,
and even the body’s ecstasy
were stripped away.
the only thing permitted
was the sharpening of edges—
the sharper they were,
the larger our rations
of water and air.

I know you must be tired
after waiting through so many millennia,
but at least you never needed blood
or language
to feed your descendants.

and now you command me
to gather ninety-nine stones
and stone the windows.
don’t you know that, after you left,
I suckled the breasts of every woman who remained,
drank the sap of trees,
and left no rock untouched
until it surrendered its silence to me?

can’t you see how tall I’ve grown?
tall enough to pull every sky
into my bedroom
and love them, one by one,
until the stars collapse inside my eyes
and never leave them again.

look—
I see now
the steam no longer rises
from your palms.

prepare yourself—
you will enter my memory
and wait for the final verdict.

from the books of history
I will build you a massive fire,
with a single touch.