Traditions of Bread and Violence
When the coroner laid
your heart on his scale,
Cupid was no more than a pest
buzzing over raw meat.
Sorrow put me at the tip of Chile,
whether I stared at you
or a rock.
Drivers turned on their air conditioners,
Opened the sky over us. In that hole,
the hand of God
was nowhere to be seen.
You lay down in your grave
only by chance. Even here,
In God We Trust
is the tiny message
I’m forced to desire in handfuls
whether I believe in Him or not.