We are not the book that begins:

"bloodroot, feverfew," or the mint

between a mouth and an ear: mi vida,

mi estrella, the iodine letting down

its dirty hair – mi cordero, my lamb.

Listen, mi cielo, the sky is not

a metaphor. We are not the eyedropper

of sunrise, or the roof beams

that shudder under all these hours.

◄▪►