Under the figs, in the evening, I read your prophecies, John,
and remembered how the curling, gleaming nest of vipers shone
in the desert sun above us, when I arched like an olive tree
in the shade of the rocks, before I knew how many you’d had like me
—but not like me, Salome, I’ll dance tonight for your head
and they’ll see my side when I’m famous and you’re dead.