A letter from Spain
reads, “I poured the old woman’s blood in the garden,”
as though it were possible to explain such an action,
as though that sentence could follow any other, or
be followed. I read the letter over and over, and later
take a man in my mouth, drink a spoonful of his life,
as though it were possible to explain such an action.
If I write about the blood of that old woman, returned
to earth, what will I write that blood and earth have not
already sung? If I write about that man who writhed
and pulsed against my throat, what will I write except
his murmuring my name, the slim luck of our meeting,
how we did not love and yet touched briefly, as he offered
a half-portion of all our beginnings.