But no one can figure out why.
My theory is that it’s
Her seven hands like dictionaries.
The black diamonds
Clicking in her marsupial pouch.
I think it’s her angry lips
That can’t stop kissing.
It’s the way she goes off by herself
To whisper to her hair
Light pouring from her like lava.
It’s the way she guards the password to her heart.
It’s the triangular, totally transparent head on her shoulders
The small of her back that only three men have touched and survived.
-- Panama, August 18, 2006