hospitality

i remember the night we fixed dinner at my place
i was still living alone in that four-person flat
the one where people moved in and out so often
there were always forgotten dry goods tucked away.
so there i was, raiding the cupboards, brainstorming
how to cobble together a decent meal for both of us.
“rabbit,” you said. “alley.” i looked, and there it was.
what i remember best was looking back at you, frozen
with half a smile, holding your breath i think. timeless.
you were beautiful. i realized that fact afresh today,
up another alley towards another house, where i met
that same rabbit. we both stopped, we both stared.
and i knew that you and it were the same in my mind,
the melting eye of youth mixed with fear of gods and
of society, the quivering thrill and hesitancy running
through your veins, your coats and whiskers and bones
more fragile and more wise than any i have known.
soo min said you live in the moon (or in the moonlight,
perhaps she meant), always making rice. she whispered
it carefully, scrunch-faced and leaning close. i laughed,
but having seen you since by moonlight i understand.
i must make you dinner again, when both of us have
finished these days of hollow yearning and responsibility,
have reached the end of our grown up selves, have found
our ways back to the city where we both were young.

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