$1 GRAB BAG

Sometimes
she prays for something tedious
a break from the chaos
Sometimes
she wills the traffic
to turn the other way
Sometimes
she wills herself to pray
and her blood
her bones
her soul
she knows
are rejecting this life
like a transplanted liver

The racists call it
"Indian giver."
She offers herself,
loving like fine wine,
then knocks the crystal
from the table
and lets the primordial crimson cordial
seep into the innocent toes
of here friendly foes.

She leaves the doors unlocked
but the curtains closed
like a $1 grab bag
for the over-exposed.
And she smiles
thinking of the people we are
that no one is supposed to know
far from Baghdad's bravado
we all sit on our volcanos
grinning like gurus
gasping for the breath
of some souled-out
beloved.