Howie-me

EVERYTHING REMINDS ME OF ME

oil fires,

arranged marriages,

the phone calls

transcribed

by the secret police,

Scott in the Garden

of Allah Hotel

mailing a postcard

to himself,

the daub of red

at the tip

of a seagull’s beak,

my dead mother

on the corner

waving goodbye,

goodbye, goodbye,

her face splotched

where the first few raindrops

have touched it.