Into my house you plunge,
Fat Man on Little Mexico,
fallout on ancient graves
scattered over trembling bones of Aztecs,
calcium-white tooth glaring—
a daughter is lost from the blood-brown earth.

You lay down our drummer's tongue,
a corpse buried on my doorstep:  there
your sisters leave presents
of spouses,
whose work shirts are drenched
from the factories,
gifts of weddings
made sacred with babies,
and wet with the blessing of priests.