Friday, March 21, 2014. Her brown falcon perches above the sink. As steaming water forks over my hands. Below the wrists they shrivel and turn pink. I am in exile in my own land. Her half-grown cats scuffle across the floor. Trailing a slime of blood from where they fed. They claw under the door. I am an exile in my own bed. Her spotted mongrel, bristling with red mange,. Sleeps on the threshold of the Third Street bar. Where I drink brandy as the couples change.

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