The woman’s power is in her giant frame.

She hands you a drink, Mami,

a feigned grin you can’t read in your kindness,

the weakness of your thinning

parts: naked branches in the fall (I still dream you

sickly, soft lips quenched). Your eyes find the woman,

she walks you to the green patio, the white

sky, throws you on your knees, ropes your reddened

hands, your back to me limp, fishtailing. The drink,

she says, was a tranquilizer—you won’t feel this

cold dread in my hand. I push its rigid

eye through your hair, cutting through your

sweat and scent, and causing

your hard grounding, Mami.

That complete collapse

at the instant of discharge.