Procession of Flies
The tongue remembers all kinds of things
like your name and the blood I ring out from it.
I lift the lid to find the sow’s head;
its gaping mouth, a cave where a muscle
had been pulled from its roots.
It says, “No primo, you’ve got it all wrong
a butcher’s fever isn’t for gold
but for the long hours in darkness.”
I fish out the bougainvillea petals from the aqueduct
and let the casinos slip away into daylight.
When we see the cassette’s black ribbon
and how it strangles the roadside shrine,
you ask, “Baby, do you think I could have been someone?”
your body tumbling miles down the road.