They arrive,
banishing the ripened
mango of sun
beneath the horizon.
They give,
the moon permission to heave
its swollen, silver womb
above the apple blossoms.
They trail,
jasmine, pineapple, and bergamot
up the driveway, sweetness my cousins and I will chase
through the bluestem for days after.
They boil,
with a warmth that draws us in,
and feed us full of lamb chops
and saffron rice.
They dance,
slender waists ceding control
to curvaceous hips, embroidered shawls
engulfing our senses.
They talk,
painted rosewood lips
barely brushing each other,
while we run, our stubby little legs
charged with the remnants
of their electric light.
They hand,
the one whose luster is dimmer tonight
a smattering of bills, coins, earrings,
a gleam enclosed within their conclave of silk,
and sanctuary.
They leave,
chestnut braids dissolved
around their shoulders,
stomachs emptied
by our unknowing gluttony, eyes,
kohl-lined and teeming,
the moon’s silver womb
irradiant above them.