There’s a summoning of mules, their backs
sultry with besmeared, dead monarchs.
They lunged into a vision, you told me,
an uprise against their own nectaring bodies,
a swarm circling in the shape of hunger.
I cannot harvest what is out of reach. Mi
virgen, how I blister like the parched before
and after me. How I swell like altar fruit
plucking itself. I cast light through open
windows. Lonesome conception, bloating god,
the tearing feel of the physical, mi virgen.