Confessions for the Guerrilla Fighter Upstairs
The street, empty of your body guards,
empty your house, empty the Chivas bottle,
empty my bed, empty our dawn. Your army
uniform hangs empty in the vacant closet
in my home. Your t-shirt and my blouse on the
laundry line like freshly laundered peace flags.
I scribbled graffiti on your door. I was drunk,
tired of hearing your speeches to the press,
news of money you took from enemies
and friends, your pretty girls, your libido,
the sex. For me, it was always our cheeks,
rosy after love, your hands, clean in the light,
clean on my skin, your bloodless nails.
I heard of your boots on mountain trails,
of your men and women burning farms,
taking children from their homes to teach
them, not how to read, but how to load a gun.
I water plants, clip dead leaves off of
stems, buy black negligees, wear crimson
lipstick, sweep tiles, dream your airplane
stark and desolate in the clouds, my lips
moist with wine, moist with you. 
Confessions for the Guerrilla Fighter Upstairs
My Father’s Language