my eye sockets are on the middle abdominals,
people in my village compare me to an old juiceless orange –
shrunken, solid as a billiard ball
with a face drawn on its brown snake-
skin belly – and I would happily be burned
(though I think I am a reasonable man),
drowned in potato liquor
to saturate her lips, go in vapours toward her neck
like the spirit of the heart
whose spiked chamber walls are
finding one another, slowly. but night upon night
her cat sits on the bed, licks at the same plot of emptiness
until first light, feeding time.
she is not returning for her things, or her animals.
I know that the hot air balloons
the cat watches through the window as it cracks the sardine skulls,
I know they are hiding her. I know
the emptiness must be where my eyes had been.
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