january tenth

i am recognized the second night
(mistakenly, how long are you staying with?
and hands push towards me with shopping bags,
teetering down basement steps in the dark, two fridges crammed full of the exotic
pulling out and pushing in hot trays of chicken and rice, one-widow-servings of
pumpkin soup, glass jars of chutney) taking plates out of hands with my hands,
refilling and regrouping and coming home in the dark and the stars and
filling the air with smoked salmon on my fingers
and there on the front seat, the bags of onions
remind me of praying for stigmata as a child,
for that something, anything, from lonely to holy
in a move so undeniably pure as to sting of the truth