When the sweet air turns bitter
dogs bark in Occitan
and cats purr in Plattdeutsch.
Birds sing sotto voce.
My lungs, like plucked lyres,
rustle like threads thru dead leaves.
Mother has a hole in her abdomen
the size of a pugilist's fist with
the face of Jupiter's hurricane.
When the sweet air turns bitter
I sing about dogs and cats
with lost tongues as the hurricane's
bloodshot eye burns dead leaves.
