Why I Could Never Be
A Vegan

after Billy Collins

The smell of charcoal gets me
nostalgic: my childhood, and
those summers my parents
were always throwing something

on the grill; our backyard crowded
with neighbors – reeking of Heineken,
sweat and roasted barbecue –

two-stepping to Stevie Wonder.
I wish I were sympathetic
about animal rights, but then
I remember Birmingham, fire hoses

and what was unleashed
on protesters. What's sacred
then? Ask my mom, and she'll say

I might have been
an Alvin Ailey dancer, the way
I step hop and run to a bubbling pot
of curry goat; or how a juicy slice

of turkey has me gripping
the roasting fork like a mic.

Why do vegetables only appear

desirable garnishing a plate
of bleu cheese and buffalo wings?
Why does salad, despite its dressing,

seem incomplete without chicken.

God Light

And what's your secret –
more than sermons and
scriptures? Even when

time gobbles down
the weekend in a gulp,
and a gang of workdays

eye you like punks –
punching their palms
with a grin and a wink,

there you are as if
the world weren't a ball
of yarn unraveling in

the hands of toddlers.
You with a Sufi's glow,
with what makes you

interstellar, or celestial,
something
bright as blessings.

(for mom)