White pillows at night descend.
Pain sounds its celestial sorcery;
the mirage that returns
because there’s twilight.
I don’t cry
because there’s no fire,
no grief masturbation,
no dilation to raise my second thought,
neither hanged nor dead dog,
neither bombastic, nor Jesus, nor father, nor virgin.
But I don’t think much about the unreality of things
they’re just dust shared in nexus.
Death for a woman is transparent
it’s male and bandaged.
Someday we’ll greet all our fans with gestures
superstitious and pale.