^{after Leila Chatti}

let me praise not the wasp & the paper nest, 
the caterpillar’s soft green coat, the trapdoor 
spider & her low warm house, the tunnel 
& the milky white egg, the larvae in the egg, no, 
not praise, thick emerald of a jungle, despite 
that there is no jungle, & I’ll not praise 
the desert, her vat of stars, the stars like an earring 
pinned to a grandfather’s coat, again, no coat, 
no fabrics called raw silk or gauze, no glaze 
of the sun on the sea like honey on phyllo dough, 
see how simile orders all things, takes logic 
& reduces to an arc of thought, see flood 
& floodgate & fear, no praise for the hand 
that harms me & if I be an insect so be it 
& let me sting, I’ll praise only the true thing 
for what it is, no metaphor, here I praise 
the name of a child called Jibreel, a real child, 
a child named for the angel messenger 
bearing only good news.