I was salt on your pricked finger from the sewing needle. you sucked the blood loose from barely clotted scabs, rolling your eyes and laughing with the burlap hanging between your yellow teeth. I fall asleep to the twang of flossing gums like thin nail plucking a mahogany guitar probably somewhere in Valencia or Madrid, where babies cry with tiny fists instead of your red screams at the foot of the bed. you had a life before me. I watch you slam the shutters in a storm thinking it will help to hole up the house to keep the lightning out, the thunder you try your best to hush. If I could, I would, you say with conviction, I think I believe in God. you do not smile at me now, but stare out the window where the cat meows at its own reflection that is left out in the rain.
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