Persians love all things sour and bitter
best of all bergamot’s green rind
and cut scent of rain
that pricks my eyes with tears.
We only have
my fine bone cup’s spiderlings of light,
your horn spoon, freckled with sparrow-down,
and shared grains of an unseen coast,
whisper of perfidious winds.
Longer than old-womanhood
and the moon’s recede/return, apogee/perigee,
longer than all desire, our journey:
the brew is hot now, perfect,
let there be kindness enough and time
so we drink to the end of it.