i have flown to the city of death
and i sit at a desk in the room
where they swallowed pills and pills
and covered the floor with vomit
while i slept across the hall
years later, we waited together for
her life to spill out overnight, and
waited, again, a month
for important men
to give her their blessing
it's hot here
the air sticks to my skin
and smells of lavender
and there is silence
and there is birdsong
and i eat my meal with fresh cilantro
from the garden where cat bones
rest beneath granite stone