me and my manana habit. here it is...

He'll take burlap and cashmere, the slack
break in a thousand hotel sinks--after the soap, the rub.
If the anima embodies the dark desire
can he belong to what he is kissing:
Plate-headed brute with his wide arms, Roman
leading through the rooms of
this morning, black smoke, the neighbor’s maimed dog.



When my father was thirsty, he hurt my hand.
He carried steam and the funk of an unbathed woman
(a weekly anniversary of my nakedness)
to greet me, hid me in a room with no windows,
our thatched roof swollen from the storm (its fibers heavy),
and there, always, was my sister's mouth.
We could not bury them all.