For Alma

The summer wind sets the curtains flapping,
the ends of the cords snare-drum the plaster.
Garlic and chili waft from a kitchen
and a sax player on the street blows hard.

She lays on me, panting, black hair flying,
eyelashes wet, damp air like opium.
“Are you hungry?” She says she’ll be right back.
Five minutes later, sirens stop the sax.

I did nothing at the trial. Did nothing
at her funeral. I sit in her room
where the curtains hang limp, and the night fog
smothers the city and snuffs out the stars.

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