First Warm Sunday of the Year

after Frank O’Hara

it’s 1 a.m. in los angeles & i am trying
to finish this after putting off all day
first to meet mo at the cafe & eat toasts
thick with ricotta & lemon, lemon like
the sun breaking through clouds,
& it’s the first time in weeks i’ve been
able to stay all day on my feet & this
makes me want to say yes & keep
saying it, yes when hanin calls & says
come for lunch & i do, stopping first
to buy little presents for her apartment
at the gourmet deli, & when we sit
on her couch with plates balanced
on our knees watching a video
of two women recording a podcast
about friendship, i think for a moment
maybe i should go home & write
but there she sits, my sweetest
& littlest cousin, tiniest sister, who made
chicken & called me over
to eat it with her, what if not that
is the important work i’m meant for

& when she wants ice cream we put on
our shoes & everyone is out on the strip
enjoying the bright weather, & i walk home
& listen to the song nick sent me years ago
made by sampling the music box i’ve had
since childhood, & in the apartment the light
is streaming & christopher is sleeping sweetly
with an arm thrown across his face, & when
he wakes he shares his food & brings
the nice cloth napkins out across our laps
& at raneen & hisham’s we together make
a salad with a task for each of our hands,
raneen cutting tiny tomatoes while i shake
a vinaigrette inside a jar, hisham putting bowls
out on the round table & together we talk
into the night until i am sleepy then awake again
& still have not written but also have
& have so much, & my friends, my loves,
sweet faces i memorize & kiss, this is
my joyful work, making that which is worth
recording, my tenderest & curly-haired,
text me always a page from the books
you are reading, send me always three
voice notes in a row, my most beloved, email me
always the draft of your poem, sing to me,
tell me always the same stories, repeat yourselves,
write to me, thank you, thank you, may we
always stay up too late