For an Argentinian sex worker in the 1920s
There are always more stories, as long as a thousand of my faces are
as there are ears. In twilight, I look into new stars, risen above the wills
a mirror facing a mirror, and see my eyes in men, of my million breasts
as pearls lay at my clavicle as a means to some end that doesn’t end
for bewildered fingers to find their pathways that may shimmer in that
way. I’ve been forgetting nothing of some lives I may have lived had
of what I would have been had not I gone my own way. When
I found my bestiary, all us girls, we became las Brujas, feral, teeth
more imagined than real. Luz mala gleaming in the lilac dusk.