Charlotte O'Brien		Pivo                         "Beer is the main export of the Czech Republic."   Sun pools in through the orange curtains   I watch the dust float this room, a small tank, stagnant water.   tongue swollen in my mouth. clitoris, disappointed by my finger.   body burns for air, no, water.   II.   Outside, early morning looms like the tenements.   Laundry blows balconies, sporting white flags surrender.   Bus tickets; bits of paper tumble uselessly   down the street   wind gushes past with the commuter trams.   All the shopkeepers are mute. They hear my accent, I speak: Tourist, tourist, tourist …   III.   An old man leans against a window boarded up. He keeps a secret.   A young boy selling fruit, he knows the secret.   Voices; sounds – coming from, what are they saying?   they spill from a beaded curtain.   IV.   Behind the curtain it is 9am. A big man serving beer.   Bleak faces, suits look mildly curious.   Tables full, they know each other.   I am foreign.   They are all drinking beer I think: It's comforting.   It must be comforting.		Persimmon   She slices it perfectly and hands me half: an exotic star.   Persimmon… she says, raising it to her lips: demonstrating.   As if it were an every day word – fruit always on the cutting board, knife always ready –   and I the child. Surprised by such innocuous fruit   falling open  … so elegantly;   so crisp and sweet.