Pensé Que Estabas Muerto
but your deaths existed the nights you didn’t come home.
The first instant in the Toyota Corolla, the fourth slow
glass-pierced torsoface perfect for an open casket.
The night I was pregnant and a call from two women
prompted your exit, you ingested sacred datura seeds.
I killed you with seizures. I killed you with cardiac arrest.
I killed you with the Old Man of the Mountain’s face before it fell.
Pero tus muertes fue hace décadas.
When I plant ornamental Ricinus and green berries
form on lantana I consider another man now.
He dies from pulmonary edema. He dies from kidney failure.
When bees hum of cousins producing one-hundred
and fifty pounds of honey a year for their previous
owners, he dies in a billow of yellow and black.
Antes de morir cantando, fuimos nosotros. ¡Fuimos nosotros!
With melittin and anaphylactic shock in the Rose Garden.
