Merchants of Cyrene, close your palms
On the last remaining place
A sprig of Silphium grows
The silvery cold of a coin face
The boats have all vanished from the slimey harbourwalls
Apollonia emptied to reveal all

How we are lost
Bowed to the hearthlight
Telling our girls why we'll have to be leaving
Fat teardrops roll
Off the bluffs of our cheekbones
Orangey globes
Spent with a hiss on the dying coals

No more sap of laserwort to grate
Over braised flamingo hearts
Or render into a salve
To purge the uterus lining
Nothing left to sprinkle on the boiled brains of sheep
Other than this cheap asafoetida

How we are lost
Loading the oxcart
With a halfmoon
Filled of our meagre possession
Tying it fast
With twine from my uncle's shop
And now I must wake the girls
Darlings, quick to the courtyard

How we are lost
Scrolling the highway
Leaving behind the only home we have ever known
Lamp on a pole
Eyes glued to the bouldered road
In my mouth, a moth goes and instantly perishes
Halting the cart
I stop to listen
Cows in the dark
Bells at the edge of the ocean
Mingle with snores
A child sleeping in my earhole
I feel alive
How we are lost in each other

Merchants of Cyrene that you hold
Let them go