all wrath and blessing and wearing
my husband’s beard, whispers, tell me who
you suspect. He fools me the same way every time,
but never punishes me the same way twice.
I don’t remember who I give him but he says
I have the instinct for red. Kiss red. Pleasure red.
Red of the ripe guaraná, of the jaguar’s eyes
when it stalks the village at night. Red as the child
I birthed who breathed twice and died.
The stump of flesh where the head should be,
red. Pierced side of Christ, red. A sinner needs
her sin, and mine is beloved. Mine returns
with skin under his fingernails, and ice cube
on his tongue, and covers my face with a hymnal.
I never ask for a miracle, only strength enough
to bear his weight. Each day, I hang laundry
on the line, dodge every shadow. Each night
he crawls through the window, I pay with a name.
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