by Nan Pincus Zarkar

I only catch the smell of roasted sweet potatoes 

after I’ve walked by. I only see the dogs 

sleeping on top of the cars 

once I’ve lost myself

in sweat. I order an espresso  

served in a paper cup 

like a thimble. I zag 

to be under the shadows 

of buildings and of palms. 

I hear myself mutter zilaal

then shade, shade, shade.

When I make it home

it takes me ever so long 

to realize why I feel an almost

bodily longing to be burning 

through the pages of Pale Fire.