For D. M.

you are not Livia: detaining powers
inside your hips your breasts your maniacal hands
and for that matter not your womb—your fingers alone
drip with subtle poisons that hide under the smell
of my deadly garum. if you could you would take
the fish entrails and leave them on my grave
then have your own will read while drinking
unmixed wine. my will shall be read
as your son marches into Hispana, where
in a thousand years he will meet a Moore
lie with her and bear the name of a kingdom.
that kingdom will be I and my three dogs
tearing through the mountains until
we cross the ocean and i lie with another
darkened girl and we create stars and numbers
and eat potatoes that you cannot stomach
because—to you—they are poison, like the way
you poisoned my fathers had you been Livia
(which you are not).

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