a night in d.f.

your mouth, in the dark-light of the statue of jose marti,
telling me that i have been hurtful and terrible
and i’m not sure why i wrapped my face in my hands,
head bowed,
the way they do in movies,
the women who cry resented or resentful
at having lost a loved one,
be it human or animal.
later we drank out of glass bottles
and i felt ashamed,
avoiding your eyes
like a child-lover
whose little box of important things
has been found at the bottom of a pile of books
and dumped out
and they realize that most of their belongings have become
other, more sinister objects
without their knowing,
like a loved one’s gift of a dead leaf
turned into a rusted bottle cap.