>
I meet your other wife, the one
who lives in your home country:
she sits on the flowered couch
in your living room and glares
at me. Her hair is long and brilliant:
it shimmers like TV hair, like its own
advertisement. The room fills
up with women, all wearing short
clingy dresses, all showing abundant
fluttering cleavage. The TV shouts
Latin music, classic guitars
and pipes. There’s no glass
in the windows, no bars, and I
can see glossy leaves outside
the size of small aircraft. The air
is full of waving black and yellow
wings—birds sing to each other
in whistling cat calls. I smell
something dirty and sweet decaying
outside. I wonder where you are,
if you are hiding again in the closet
with your whiskey and beer.
