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Night Market

Dreams can be bought cheaply. I

would sell mine for a cloth dipped

in ice water, sugared haw fruit,

a thimbleful of vengeance. Anything

can be fried and skewered on a stick:

Scorpions. Uncurling octopus tentacles.

Lamb. Lights blink from this stall

then that: shadows do not lie down—  

they breed and sneak off. Our

stomachs are mewling. Steam

from a flash-boiling tripe vat

plumps salt in licks down

your spine. The border between

yesterday and tomorrow, being friends

or something more: rice paper

melting in our mouths. Peaches

sweat through their monkey fur.

A hawker mistakes me for a tour

guide. I place dragon eyes between

your teeth. You slice them down

to their lacquered pits.

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