FUEGO

FUEGO

This is not
a woman, sitting in a room
writing. It is a woman
whose hair has grown
wild fire, melting every
frozen moment in her house.
Birds titter at the window,
as if to see the commotion. But
it is themselves they see, small
bodies wanting to fly into
themselves, becoming one
thing. Like the woman, who is
not one woman, but another,
and a man, and a child, and
another. So many to carry
and it rains out of her – fuego
tongues and limbs,
the body alive all at once.