Exiles
You fixed Mongolian stew
on a two ring Russian-made burner.
We understood
that we’d not be drinking salted milk tea
in Ulan Bator anytime soon.
Nevertheless,
we bought Kazakh embroidery
laid on goatskins, treated the room
as if it were a symbol laden yurt.
Your body was my perfect fit,
a silken deel of sensuality,
which we both knew
was the national costume
of the desolate and lost.
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