The Ninth Floor in Caracas
In the streets below Draghitza's body
rain baubles the yellowish-brown light—
her body's wet and slick as street
and brown between the window slats—it's rain-
ing and the pipes groan porque.
She turns off
the faucet, reaches for the soap, suds
leave her hands and slide the way
stolen bulbs of light slide
(on electrical lines
diverted through the mountainside
barrios, where it
puddling the floor, baby slapping
water and the hair-line cracks of concrete
like the lines around Draghitza's mouth)
pay for my electricity
Franklin says, who lives there).
on her bright breasts, it´s raining on her belly
down her thighs; the people below are wet
with stolen light.
strew their colors —it's too hard
for that—but dogs quiver under lumber
busses splash the same
sloppy syllable across each sidewalk,
the metro opens its mouth, the balcony
becomes a cup.
The faucet won't turn off. The
the soap has fallen and her body, slick
Draghitza shakes some water
drops from her fingertips, she blurs
in latent steam, is lost in surfeit
sharpens and blurs again.
She has fingerprints and large hands.
She tastes slightly of metal and of sea.
She is always smaller in person
than we expect and more
than we remember.