Ezequiel’s pick-up truck is as warm
As an exit-wound. I tell him this. The
Music roars and winds, I believe this
To be another type of wind.

Ezequiel’s reassurances are enough.
He licks the wet sweat from my thigh
& tells me that’s another kind
Of nature’s medicine. That I won’t die.

Ezequiel’s will to strengthen me, to
Touch my chalked-cheeks. O I become
The protagonist & berate his fingers
From inching any closer. Leave!

Ezequiel’s eyes watching me bleed
On a carpeted floor; mosaic, colorful,
& I wonder if that’s another kind-of
Beauty: us, dying. Neither a savior.