Becoming One of Those Nights

A bird is perched on the branch outside my window
“The-silhouette-of-your-cadaver-is-the-most-beautiful-thing-I’ve-ever-seen” is its name
and its species is suicide.
How alluringly it sings
my name. At times like these
the only thing holding the world together is the rain.

It is becoming one of those nights
when the pimple on my inner thigh becomes a herpes sore,
one of those nights
when the American bombers drop invisible leaflets on my house
that say (I am certain of it, there is no mistaking the print):
“subcomandante marcos is not a homosexual in San Francisco.
the greys are winning.”

I cry out “hug me, hold me, need me!” but there is nothing
but the rain
and the ceaseless song of the bird.