by Andrea Werblin

    Except for the chickens humming to each other，

    making themselves look boneless in the dirt，

    I want no memory of this place.

    I will leave gingerly.

    I will leave strung out.

    I will leave rocking on my heels in unbearable¹ heat.

    the Mexican girls still faking and mourning Selena

    from their perfect cement stoops，

    not yet sworn to the anger hanging

    from their papas' mouths like cigarettes.

    I will leave stunned²， from across the room.

    I will leave by instinct， my tongue intact.

    I will leave understanding it

    was always coming， before that night， even

    before we met. Marta will stand quiet， a glyph，

    Pedro offer beer in cups. We'll sit.

    When I leave， the sky will be a gouache of scratches，

    the morning sluggish³， a cactus⁴ flowering.

    Or I will leave in blistered⁵ dark. It will still be true.