This evening felt like childhood and church and Bacchanalia.
I do not try to resolve the contradictions
of men with fan fetishes and offers of red wine like holy communion,
with the phallic kielbasa that reminds me of my grandparents
and eating langos, Hungarian fried dough, in their Scarborough home,
and phrases in a language I’ve mostly forgotten,
and the resonance of chanted languages I never knew but know the sounds of
after years of borscht in the basement of an Eastern Orthodox church.