by Luisana Cortez
The cracking bleat of the ram wakes my family,
And, in the afternoon, it is slaughtered for its sterility.
The scent of hyacinths and running water dusky on its horns.
I realized quickly, as it above magnifies, that incompetence
Is still stronger in the day —
The time when faces decide to tilt down, raining
Pieces of tongue like a lively disease of the mouth.
The blood puncture filling up the drying lake.
The tide always comes in, sweeps away my family’s house
As someone mouths, laughs, a finger raised in a
Stiffened fishhook. I can smell the wet of my back.
Why I keep finding torn flesh under my nails.
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