You associate our favorite
sparkling water with yeast
sandwiches made by your mother
back home on the reservation.
I prefer the taste of warm brick
from the ruined mill building
by the river where we swam
naked right after the war.
Last night the Witches’ Sabbath
again sealed your pact with Satan,
whose hot breath lingers long after
his departure in sly hosannas.
You always think that witchcraft
strong enough to topple buildings
can solve the latest mysteries
with dainty forensic spells.
You believe that the snoring of birds
in the earliest hours completes
song cycles that nature ordains
to consecrate favored landscapes.
I believe that nesting herons
in the marsh beyond the quarry
converse in a language too ripe
for even your ancestors to parse.
I also believe that the yeast
your mother fed you swelled your ego
to upholster your bony torso
against the ogling of men like me.
Yet the taste of sun-struck brick
from a structure toppled by fire
a lifetime before we were born
lingers longer than your kisses.
Maybe we should refine ourselves
to better conform to each other
before peepers finish mating
and the season eludes our grasp.
