In Babylon

don’t threaten me with pain
you don't need to.
just propose the idea.
here in babylon
ideas float the city sewers.
you can hear the city flush
in the nightly news.
these ideas give off the scent of jasmine
but that's not weird here, though.
so jasmine and sewage
balm the boils of the sick
in babylon.
i walked along the sewer one day
thinking about the lines
that penetrate my heart—
like fishing lines
cast from the shore,
baited with promise,
and knotted to hook anxiety.
these lines are made of purple silk
and adorn the city's walls.
the people often call them
"our enchanted vines."
i was enchanted once with an idea
of purpose-infused pain
and the balm of a blood sacrifice.
but that was before the new age
of new things and new ideas
and new rulers and new smells.
now the smell of the city entices me.
i feel the enchanted vine wrapping my soul
like a spider's weave.
what was that about pain?
oh yes, i hate the idea—
but i'm enchanted by it.
is it punishment or preparation?
practical or purposeful?
i have so many questions
that i want to throw out into the sewer,
then rub my back again
with the city's fine oil.
oil we—i mean they—press
and sell to the nations.
the oil is infused with jasmine.
oh this city is just wonderful.
the longing, though, i can't deny.
it's a deep and soft breeze
that somehow cools my soul in the morning
when the sun rips the pollution through
and hits my face and reminds me who i am.
i am not home.
i do not belong in this city.
the longing both satiates and creates hunger,
i don't know which before the other.
these mornings i float on the longing,
as on a river straight out the city
where i smell what never seems to fade—
a sweet fragrance
the smoke from
an innocent lamb
sacrificed for me.

This poem is from my book Burning in Babylon.