It is pretty to be sweet



and full of pardon like



a flower perfuming the



hands that shred it, but



all piety leads to a single



point: the same paradise



where dead lab rats go.







If you live small you’ll



be resurrected with the



small, a whole planet



of minor gods simpering



in the weeds. I don’t know



anyone who would kill



anyone for me. As boys







my brother and I



would play love, me



drawing stars on



the soles of his feet,



him tickling my back.



Then we’d play harm,



him cataloging my sins







to the air, me throwing



him into furniture.



The algorithms for living



have always been



delicious and hollow,



like a beetle husk in a



spider’s paw. Hafez said







fear is the cheapest room



in a house, that we ought



to live in better



conditions. I would



happily trade all my



knowing for plusher



carpet, higher ceilings.







Some nights I force



my brain to dream me



Persian by listening



to old home movies



as I fall asleep. In the



mornings I open my eyes



and spoil the séance. Am I







forfeiting my mystique?



All bodies become sicker



bodies. This is a kind of object



permanence, a curse bent



around our scalps resembling



grace only at the tattered



edges. It’s so unsettling







to feel anything but good.



I wish I was only as cruel as



the first time I noticed



I was cruel, waving my tiny



shadow over a pond to scare



the copper minnows.



Rockabye, now I lay me







down, et cetera. The world



is what accumulates —



the mouth full of meat,



the earth full of meat.



My grandfather



taught his parrot



the ninety-nine holy







names of God. Al-Muzil:



The Humiliator. Al-Waarith:



The Heir. Once, after



my grandfather had been



dead for a year, I woke



from a dream (I was a



sultan guzzling flies







from a crystal boot) with



his walking cane deep



in my mouth. I kept sucking



until I fell back asleep.



There are only two bones



in the throat, and that’s if you



count the clavicle. This







seems unsafe, overdelicate,



like I ought to ask for



a third. As if anyone



living would offer.



Corporeal friends are



spiritual enemies, said



Blake, probably gardening







in the nude. Today I’m trying



to scowl more, mismatch



my lingerie. Nobody



seems bothered enough.



Some saints spent their



whole childhoods biting



their teachers’ hands and







sprinkling salt into spider-



webs, only to be redeemed



by a fluke shock



of grace just before



death. May I feather



into such a swan soon.



The Book of Things







Not to Touch gets longer



every day: on one



page, the handsome puppy



bred only for service. On



the next, my mother’s



face. It’s not even enough



to keep my hands to myself —







there’s a whole chapter



about the parts of me



that could get me



into trouble. In Farsi,



we say jaya shomah khallee



when a beloved is absent



from our table — literally:







your place is empty.



I don’t know why I waste



my time with the imprecision



of saying anything else,



like using a hacksaw



to slice a strawberry when



I have a razor in my







pocket. To the extent I am



necessary at all, I am



necessary like a roadside deer —



a thing to drive past, to catch



the white of, something



to make a person pause,



say, look, a deer.





