Expatriate

Sunlight dapples across your lashes,
turns them to gold.

In the novelty museum, a woman and her son browse
instruments of torture.

In the still, gray water my life is born in figurines. My right foot forever bears a stigmata from the accident—The streetcar—not Diego.My heartlines, my left side, bear his scar. But no children. Blood flows from my womb, painting the…