wailing in agony. 

Dezole! Dezole!

Palming fistfuls 

of your torso,  

quicksand shaking  

to your knees.  

This disaster happened decades ago,  

but your fingers pendulum the open space,  

look for strands of singed hair, 

 fragments of scorched scalp.  

Mete l ‘soti! Mete l ‘soti!

I pretend to put out the fire 

that is not trailing up your nightgown.  

Your eyes are nothing  

but clear marbles 

rolling inside a husk  

of wet cheek and dry bone.  

You scream– Mwen pa konnen ou!  

You scream–Sove’m! 

But I cannot help you 

build your coffin

when you are still claiming breath.  

You yell at a TV,  

but no sound unfurls itself from your lips.

These episodes  

are reruns  

that I’ve learned to ignore.  

The family pretends you are fine  

as you trip over the broom  

in your own hands,   

as you sneak capfuls of bleach, 

raw your throat to be sliced,  

see the word devil spelled  

in your alphabet soap,  

douse yourself with  

handmade holy water,  

tell me to eat stale bread for a week 

when I whistle too hard,  

climb the roof  

in your bathrobe,  

manic your way to flightless bird.   

Granmé, did you see me bang fry pans 

against my ears so you feel less alone? 

Granmé, are these arms wide enough  

to show I do not want you in them? 

We stain our clothes with words 

the other does not understand.  

We lace our tongues  

to feel the weight of a mouth  

with no jaw.