a windfall
she called it
my face was bright with wine
disguised, the crestfallen
turn to distraction, opportunity
the salvaged paper dolls?
they ignite the kindling
the stones thrown through the windows?
they feed the sweatbath
heat pouring into eyes, closed
i called it out
a salty stream of confessions
could hardly take a breath
we were infinite
then we weren't
i swear she was reading
my cards, she must have been
brilliant, psychic, indifferent
to the steam that rises from this,
my anger. it will be beautiful,
i know, and still
this complicated gift is
wrapped in shit & sorrow
it doesn't take a feminist
to see
12.8.11
rápidas manos frías/ retiran una a una/las vendas de la sombra/abro los ojos/ todavía/ estoy vivo/en el centro/ de una herida todavía fresca ~*madrugada* por octavio paz
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