Back from Beirut

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You can tell a hooker

whatever lies you like.  Become an anthropologist

dining at the corners

of her open mouth.

 

You tell her you’ve come back

from seeing the world, a journalist

if it suits you. Grope her gray ass

pock-marked like moon landings in the yellow hours

of your parent’s living room, brimming

with toys.

 

Your half-brother, 18 years your younger,

is 6.  She unzips your pants to the tune

of his Fischer Price accordion she kicks

away black heels, shooing off teddy bears

like jackals.

 

You invent a real estate license, confessing success

on a handshake for the family time-share. And,

even before you left the States, that

you were a generous son

between puffs up her skirt.

 

What’s finished is over.

You offer a glass of water and a chance

to watch TV, a break from the bump and grind.

 

Her palms still glistening,

I’ll leave you to your unpacking,

it would seem

you’ve still got much left to do.

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