At night my crooked flamingos look neon. At night
the mahogany earth emits an odor of dead hounds.
Bathing alone
with the hose and mud.
I’ll murder
anyone who sees, anyone who might
look out their window and over the fence.
The unpigmented flaunt of my skin, semi-beautiful.
Me and my bottle and my moon.
Then the splendor of my knights on white
motorcycles. They come down the street with an engine and roar
and the bougainvillea blinks all its thousands of eyelids.
The knights flick off their headlights
and tear through the plants
that block the gate.
They gouge out the insect eggs
resting in the peephole.
Look inside, knock for me to open.
I hack off their hands before I
bury each one in the dark.
