Her eyes dance to her voice,
which plaits the air then my back.
They talk of the girl who called child
services because she’d been getting licks;
but I keep returning to the bobbing eyes,
listening always. I knead my purse,
and brand the bowl beside her
They say goodbye love, another time.
We climb ceramic cambio stairs
to convert pounds
to lighter notes.
The voice in my head says:
God’s work...but, we leave
the country plaza - Aunt feels unwell.
I sit on my bed, stroking
a gaseous guitar on my paunch.