Apologia Over Marinated Lamb

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You say you’re a hedonist.

You say God doesn’t exist.

You say you like things when they’re new

and that you’re sorry. I’d rather

know nothing. Not about you,

not about me, not about Nihilism or Dionysus.

All I know is that two people can disagree

about everything and still end up at lunch.

It’s my birthday. Thank you for the meal.

I’m looking at the sea on the wall and

even though it’s a copy of a copy of the Aegean,

I wish you would grab me and take me to Greece.

I see you hanging a freshly killed lamb

from our open window, letting the blood

drip down the wall onto the cobblestone.

We are eating dolmas and roasted eggplant

in a small room where you tell me all your secrets.

You want to apologize for leading me on,

but I want a different apology. An apologia

for how I think of you: nonstop Godhead.

And I’m not sorry you’re here and in front of me

and breathing and eating. If you’re Bacchus,

where’s my wine? Where were you when I was naked,

offering a thousand dinners in my tiny kitchen?

How’s my birthday lamb? Oh, brutal. Delicious.