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Poem	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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