Three Macaques bend toward us and shove their leather-tipped
fingers through the metal wiring to grab
hold of the orange slices I’ve peeled
for them. This morning, we are two
of a handful of people stuttering through the zoo.
No work today because we skipped it
and wandered here, where drizzle falls on and off
onto leftover snow. Frenzied, the small creatures,
slightly human, struggle for my hand.
I recognize their appetite, though it shames me—
the devouring of something
foreign and sweet cutting through
the circumstance of a life. February 8th, 2016.
Lunar New Year and the Year of the Monkey,
year of the intelligence to stop asking why.
When my palms are finally empty, the feeding ends
and we turn toward our fragment of the gate.
Newly divorced, you toss the puzzle of orange peels
into the trash and motion for the exit. Suddenly I know
this is the reason you were angry last night
when, after we slept together, I asked for the take-out
we saved in the fridge. Above us,
a downpour designs itself in the clouds.
I tell you none of what I know until now.