Exiles

 Her brown falcon perches above the sink
as steaming water forks over my hands.

Below the wrists they shrivel and turn pink.

I am in exile in my own land.


Her half-grown cats scuffle across the floor
trailing a slime of blood from where they fed.

I lock the door.
 They claw under the door.

I am an exile in my own bed.


Her spotted mongrel, bristling with red mange,
sleeps on the threshold of the Third Street bar
where I drink brandy as the couples change.

I am in exile where my neighbors are.


On the pavement, cans of ashes burn.

Her green lizard scuttles from the light
around torn cardboard charred to glowing fern.

I am in exile in my own sight.


Her blond child sits on the stoop when I come
back at night.
 Cold hands, blue lids; we both
need sleep.
 She tells me she is going to die.

I am in exile in my own youth.


Lady of distances, this fire, this water,
this earth makes sanctuary where I stand.

Call of your animals and your blond daughter,
I am in exile in my own hands.

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