When I return you’re still that gangsta girl
working on an engine, parts strewn in front

of a rust-tinged mobile home. That daft squirrel
tattoo still curls above your ass. Pregnant

priestess. Chastised witch. Cast-off nun. We all
have been punished for breaking inane rules.

We are wit and cosmic horror. We crawl
toward faith as the gods die. I have a fool’s

love of the damned. The priest called you, “¡puta
loca!” I loved your, “Wenches with Wrenches,”

t-shirt, your butch smile. What couldn’t hookah
smoke and cheap gin cure? “Namaste, bitches.”

When I return? Without home. Without host.
I can’t. I’m your memory. You’re my ghost.