All your friends assemble. The cats

curled on laps as you sit at the table.

All the dogs get all the prime rib

they want. No scraps for anyone

because there are no scraps just

heaping portions and everyone

has their fill. All the clocks stop.

The lights strung over the feast

are actually stars. Everyone’s

made it through our Saturn returns

like champions. Pour

the nectar into the goblets,

lift your hand for the toast.

Put your shoulder into it. In

distance you see the trees

and past that you see the hilltop.

No one else is looking. They’re

wiping saganaki off each other’s

chins. They’re kissing baklava

from a stranger’s lips. Honey

never tasted so good. A little buckwheat

in it. A little borage. The poison

ivy the bee found on its way

home. In your ears the buzzing

as you look into the distance.

Head like a hive. Look away.

Feel your friends’ hands on

your shoulders. Sleepy drunk

they’re leaning on you, saying

something about some other

night you all had together. Someone

took a goat and cooked it

in the ground. From somewhere

a guitar. Girls laughing or boys

laughing. Why did you ever care

who was who? The point is

they’re laughing. In the distance

the hilltop almost looks lit

from behind. But it’s not

close to morning? It couldn’t

be. All of your friends

assembled at the table you

built with your dad. How

he held his hand over yours

as you tapped the hammer.

He smelled like cedar. His

beard tickling your cheek.

Why feel so alone when someone’s

just offered you figs, some cheese,

has placed their hand on

the back of your neck. Has turned

your chin away from the view

in the distance. Be here, right

now, they say. Leaning in

to kiss your mouth.