Gardens of Babur, Kabul

In the walled garden, surrounded by cold marble

and rows of sanctioned lime trees, I grow

defenseless against desire—I almost touch

myself remembering your scent, time zones away,

clean first, then that sourness

after sex. My eye is a slow thief, it stops

for so little: under the orange tree, a young woman

lifts from her lover’s hair a praying mantis,

its green intelligence like calligraphy

on her hand. Children scream, a man wipes

oil with bread—people still go to lunch

within a war, can you believe it?

It is here I understand I am free, I am perpetual,

because it is you who hungers me.