by Frank X. Gaspar

    The king and his queen are feasting.

    They recline， sumptuously¹， on long divans²

    and are attended by naked servants. They

    can have anything they want， this much is

    clear， and I believe they have been having

    sex with one another and with the servants.

    Why wouldn't they？ Who among the servants

    would not be honored to help？ And it's Babylon

    after all， and doesn't Babylon exist in your

    memory？ Isn't Babylon the clear rumbling³

    of your heart at ease with its every craving——

    not the way it is now， fenced off with spiked⁴ wire

    and old pipes， with signs telling the pedestrians⁵

    to beware：  the litter， the old cans rusting⁶. No，

    this is my own memory of excess and extravagance，

    of abandonment to the weight of everything

    that pulls me down to ruin， those same ticks

    and voices that lift me up and fill me with breath.

    And don't you want to drink the breath of your

    beloved？ And his beloved？ And her beloved？

    You see how it goes. The One God is mysterious

    and He has made me crazy. Maybe I am the king

    or the queen. Or one of those sculpted⁷ figures

    that bend so sweetly toward them， so graceful⁸，

    so finely formed and desirable in every way.

    I remember being desired like that， and desiring

    like that also. And I remember my heart in its deep

    voice， commanding. Now that my common neighborhood

    is tucked in for the night， the cars parked in the driveways，

    the blinds drawn⁹ and everyone's drapes closed and the garage

    doors locked， I can breathe easier. Now， in Babylon，

    you see what is possible. The queen and her king are

    dining， forever， in a gray frieze¹⁰， but even so， they make

    a fire in us， they free the ache from my shoulders，

    they make every dark wish lie down with every bright wish，

    they bring a great comfort to the harried¹¹ in this land.

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