We made Arrested Development-esque chicken imitations
at the restaurant– bakawk, cheep-cheep, wakka wakka–

being young, I thought that was the language of love.
We always laughed across the chasm of the room

when we shut shop, squeezing soap rags into heart buckets,
wiping fresh clear streaks on mahogany tables. I vacuumed

pita crumbs and invisible dust, emptied bags thinking,
perhaps, I was on the verge of vanquishing loneliness,

that I was sprinkling zaatar on a plate of foggy shish
tawook, a taste you might return to.

(originally published in Vagabond City Lit, Spring 2023)