Swallow and your mouth is parched, strands of light coming and flowing from your body,
and all the people,
do the same thing. Do they not know that
this is an emergency?

How do we not notice that we're not moving any longer?
Champagne and strawberries in some rooms there are small bubbles fizzing over and the tart tangy taste of ferment, and hearts that are pretending that "Yes. After-all, this must be it."

I remember you,
and it is terrifying to recognize so many people. I take what I see from you, and I wait for you to call me out as an imposter.

But I am old. I have been here for some time, and I remember the allies and enemies that are the drifting and intoxicated with the idea that options and choice are not finite.

We played word games in a small house in France, and your eyes were far away as you told me about your daughter who died in Africa of dehyrdation. We knelt before the same God in different ways on the dusty ground, in the open, and we were trampled by chickens and vendors selling another bite to eat to another hungry face,

and I gave you the equivalent of a moment of my life and you gave me a mango.

You invited me into your home, and you slaughtered the only animal you had left. You held me naked and helped me into the shower to bathe when I could not move my ankle, my spirit, my legs.

You took me dancing in a country where I could not speak the language. You looked at me while your little girl looked at you, and your face remained impassive as you had bandages wrapped and rewrapped over your burns.

You told me you didn't like to listen to music while walking because you would miss the sounds of the street.

You asked me if you could dance for me in a smokey room. You told me to pray with you, and when you prayed I listened and so did the Lord.

You told me you drove fast but you did not know why. You told me that serving was selfish because of how we feel when we do it.

You held me crying because of how overwhelmed you were with pain, and I was too, and I knew then I would love you forever.

You had children who could have been overcome with disease, but you stayed faithful and you stayed home and you did not leave.

Of course I recognize you. How could I forget?