Diego Enrique Flores, Capote of a young Bullfighter, Mexico City, Mexico (photograph)
My addle-winged darling.
Stir-fried flyer. Come on
down, and grease this
pan. Fat of your body
glowing in the sun. Amber
jelly and my woman’s hair
sucked into your mouth,
in the wind. Trace the sign
of the cross on the back
of my hand again, begging it
to find you, find you. Lanterns
are just a piece of contained fire,
something that wants to eat
you alive. Follow me, your marsh
-light, your baby dying
in the crowning, the gold-headed
not-ever-servant undressing
in the field, stepping out of her
clothes into the night. Toad-bride
pissing on your hand.