–after Khaled Mattawa

              The car in front stalls
and the associate who took my order
                             is consoled by a Xylosma
              overshadowing the drive thru.
How many more minutes
                          until I can eat?
                I am too anecdotal to answer.
My soul separates its paradigm
                            from reminder. The Ramadan
                before my sixteenth year,
breaking fast eight hours early
                            for my first animal style—
                anomalous—
over a tall white tee shirt.
                            I was sure the devotion
                swollen between two ground beef patties
could counteract any anguish
                            that goaded me towards
                professing faith in place of
grief. The French fries—well done
                            before the storm
                and filled with cacophonies—
did not mind the line
                            nor my chasmic appetite.
                A Neapolitan milkshake came
to tongue-tie the grumblings
                                          I made amidst the rush,
                omniscience broken once more,
for another chance at fabricating
                                          freedom. A few minutes left
                I say. A few figments of despair
stripping everything
                                          that would make me whole
                to whom—I do not know.