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.  end