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La Llorona Tells Me to Stop Crying
P
o
e
m
s

It’s Saturday night in America
and the trees are full of policemen again—
clinging to the upper branches,
emitting little hoots and caws

There are bloody handprints on the shoulders
of my shirts because I am out too late
pouring the river down my throat,
pretending to care when you tell me
your moon is in Cancer

Tonight I want you to be
the bathroom I cry in
more than I want us
to un-haunt this country

The shame of small desires,
little bells ringing in the loud dark

In the corner the shine
of a white dress & teeth

Play me that sad guitar song
about how you can fix me
as if I were a watch,
or an engine, or a door
to walk out through

Play me the one
where we walk through the forest
and find only trees