I run late for a train past
one tall man kneeling to lick
mud from a puddle.
A Portuguese woman wonders,
que hora es, hija?
no sé, I mutter,
folding myself over my knees,
no sé tía
and cry all the way to France.
While
two Spaniards in black suits
argue with each other over who gets to
fuck me
as if
my oldest heart slices pages
off of itself and
my hands tangle,
chewing each other up
chewing each other up
for wanting the
mud puddle man to be fed.
orphan poems 