witness: days before, they killed
three goats and singed their flesh
under the guava trees. Knives
dipped in rum sheared closer
to the spongy membranes later diced
with vinegar and shallots,
served warm, nearly raw.
The laughter and the clink of bottles
rose with the smoke and found
me in my hiding place. I wished
to sleep, never to return to this place
where I had voted yes to my own
undoing. But on the bed they'd lain
the trousseau as though it were another
body: veil and knotted rope of roses,
sheath of silk and tulle, waterfall
of orchids. Even I could fall
in love with such an absent
face. Framed in white, was it what
I kissed, as though it played
no part in this conspiracy?
(c)Luisa A. Igloria 2005
from Trill & Mordent
WordTech Editions, Cincinnati, OH
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