The slow and burning fire rests like the ox.
There are dung beetles on the floor, living smoke
stretching from the nostrils, branches like mail ‘cross the wire-hairs of the chest.
The feelings are woven deep into the crutch, the slow motion of your hips in the tub,
pink lips sipping my milky fingers from a jar.
dash into the sidewalk,
brace the hood against the cold
and the sharpness of heels
live like wind—do not stop for boys, or men, and obey the silence
cherish the moments of calm, when the anger rustles the brush
and the pretty teeth are clenched like knuckles.
Our padded hands and feet slink in the dawn’s purples
we calm the devils
reaching for the temples, finding the lips
and gasping for air
we breathe the silence,
curl deeply into the heartbeat
forget the girl
at the bathroom door.
[artwork by Moisés Mahiques]