Hide your spoons.

Mask your gingerbread


as cumin cookies, lemon loaf,

any scent that will put her off


what you offer to the world.

She must never know


how you saved that baby from the sting

of the tiny Mexican scorpion


or how you died on that cold beach

of the lake that shivered your name.


She’s married now, to that warm son

you kept alive on your round breast.


Stay somber, quiet, staunch with grace.

When she turns her gaze away


you know you’ll go dancing high

to tango with the moon’s sharp curve:


your breath rising full and hard

as the broom your clear prayers ride.


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