No
you can’t be
you died giving birth
legs gaping
mouth heaving out
curses
you stained my forehead
with the yolk of an egg
meant for curanderos
to interpret
your throat as long
as two hands encircling
a belly tearing out
her burden
your lovers wore felt
holding their hats in nicotine fingers
instead of joining you
theirs was the watchful crow
blue in lamplight
touch the fleeing blood
growing cold on lynx tiles
she was your lover
all of you shared her
grief and easement
like a tenancy of trombones
blowing cold you are
unable in your tarnish
to re-deliver her
scolded by her nature she is
bound by insemination
pushing against her wet thighs
a different kind of urge
get it out get it out get it out
her eyes inherit the cataracts of her
blind ancestors
you rue the days you turned her like a book
leafing through her cavities
planting your frustration in her deep recess
not thinking for a future
where blood makes palm prints
on her hot cheeks and as she lifts in agony
you recall her climax and breathe in
the stale dusk of death
ushering life on the tail end of
unwanted consequence
here is your daughter
she stands naked and boneless
sucking your inability to
grow dignified and wise
you fidget in your plastic seat
as her hands grip your weakness by the stem
enveloping provocation as
men will reach for their reflection
one last time
smoke to the last
their comfortable curse
feet reddened by women
who die beneath
deed