the plastic line threaded
calmly through the eye of
the needle (she's a camel
in the eyes of that god),
in - out - in - out
in
in
until it almost reaches the
heart of the matter,

the one that keeps her
swinging from trees
like the girl she had been,
except the trees have
ropes in the shape of
twisted, open mouths.
they sigh in the wind
that never seems to blow
except on these nights.

inside the pinpricks, the glut
of flesh and blood, lies naught
but plastic thread. her mouth
open at twice its size, waiting
for an indulgent kiss from the
father (he's in the other room
with girls who wait for the taste
of christ's body, never his blood
since we've only got cheap glass).

years since the shape of a cross
twisted at her breast, a live
animal when she talked. he was
not a pig cupid, by any means.
his laughter held the taste of
her words, whispered into his
ear during confession, her hand
dropped on his shoulder, wanting
that white collar at her own throat.

the thread and needle abandoned
flesh sagging into sin,

she saw him at the corner market,
in between the camarones and the mole.

he did not recognize her.