The husband hears lágrimas y fortuna
from the fortune-teller reading his palm.
Having asked the wrong questions,
his sentence is to live here the rest of his life.
The wife nurses a nosebleed.
She's a tall drink of water.
the wife kisses his neck,
blood petals on his collar.
Nowhere else can a man imagine the rain
in his hands, or conspire on white sheets
with the rain whispering
sweet talk in Spanish.
Boarding the next bus,
one foor on the sidewalk,
the husband mistakes happiness
for a loosened apron, a pear
ripening on the sill,
his wife's hair tucked behind an ear.
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