The sound of a small spoon stirring cardamom tea clings
to the walls. When a hijacker in a filthy helmet opens
the door with a weapon you don't know, you become
an insect in your own home. Incapable of rushing,
unable to scream. You shiver, shake, welter
in the shell of your house. The second he steps
over your slippers and night gown, your smell changes.
A new sweat shields your body, limpid--foreseeing
the end of your prosperity; you existed a moment ago,
five thousand years ago, and diminishing. The hijacker
silences chatter in your ears and blackens the light
in your eyes. You're not dead yet but sure your death
is approaching. Afraid to blink for the weight of this belt,
you choose patience. He checks you out with his boots,
the foetus curl; your last security. He prods, knocks
you over; you fall to your side. He curses at you then turns
and roars his head to the ceiling and laps up your sky.
He takes the water from your bones. Your gold
ring is in his stomach. But wait. Wait.
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