I wait for signs of it, my body in drought, pulled teeth
housed inside drawers. Gates, empty.
Yesterday, another girl
dead. Her plantains
left on the lips of a balcony—
flies digging inside the cupboards.
A red pepper is hemmed
beneath my breasts tonight. They say a moth
flew from my hair—
into woods heavy as a closed door. Lampposts calling
-- Raven Jackson