she will turn to the bathroom mirror when she comes
although she will not open her eyes.
I know this without needing to
because I've seen her talking with strangers.
Each room in this house has a vase
and each vase holds an inch of molding water
because we threw their flowers all away.
We could not bear them.
A fist inside my chest continues to close.
She believes this to be my heart
and it might as well be.
The monstrous leaves of an alien autumn clatter;
theirs is a purposeless noise
and even the smokes of their burnings
will not influence me.
At night, though, I cannot help but hear
the scraping from below, the porcelain pulse
she insinuates and the moan within my own tangled ribs;
strange music, this, but not difficult to memorize.
Imagine the circle of moisture collecting on
her reflected face.
Tyounyi, Santa Fe, New Mexico, 1989
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