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.