for Kat
moonlight
fell
a little too early on the back of my hand
because
once more I forgot to light up
the esperma but now mother
is on the verge
of waking
and so I must love her again
much like she loved me when
sleeping our dog speaks
in a language that has
no word for madness
or magic
always
I wonder
how mother
had taught me how to read
letters and words
but not between the lines formed
by the tip
of cheap candle
I rubbed last night
on the dark plywood wall
of our nipa shack
facing the escayola
of a balding saint with a sheep that looks
like our dog
outside
now howling like a dog
I am
still trying to decipher
my own
handwriting:
the wick is between my teeth
the flame is on
the gray hair
of a witch
artwork: "Hot Summer Day" by Gerry Baptist
