Calling a Wolf a Wolf. Kaveh Akbar

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      PORTRAIT OF THE ALCOHOLIC WITH HOME INVADER AND HOUSEFLY

      It felt larger than it was, the knife

      that pushed through my cheek.

      Immediately I began leaking:

      blood and saliva, soft as smoke. I had been asleep,

      safe from sad news, dreaming

      of my irradiated hairless mother

      pulling a thorn from the eye of a dog.

      I woke from that into a blade. Everything

      seemed cast in lapis and spinning light,

      like an ancient frieze in Damascus.

      Listen to me, faithful silence: somehow

      we’ve become strangers. Growing up

      I kept a housefly tied to a string tied to a lamp.

      I fed him wet Tic Tacs and idly assumed

      he would outlive me. When he died

      I opened myself to death, the way a fallen tree

      opens itself to the wild. Now my blood

      is drying on the pillow. Now the man

      who held the knife is gone, elsewhere

      and undiminished. I can hardly remember

      anything about him. It can be difficult

      telling the size of something

      when it’s right above you—the average

      cumulus cloud weighing as much

      as eighty elephants. The things I’ve thought I’ve loved

      could sink an ocean liner, and likely would

      if given the chance. From my window,

      the blinking windmills seem

      further away than ever before. My beard

      has matted itself into a bloody poultice,

      and a woman’s voice on TV is begging for charity.

      She says please and reads a phone number. Soon I will

      mumble a few words in Arabic to settle back

      into sleep. If morning arrives, I will wash my face.