(after Anne Sexton)
There, squatting toads
breath heavy on the furniture,
and all the suicides are eating black beans.
Here, the ghost of Bob Marley gigs down by the train yard
while the homeless boys howl in unison.
There, the sea wears a bell in its navel and gulls kill fish
calling out like three year olds.
Here, broken down race horses stamp behind rotting stalls
while their jockeys eat creole and drink Jack Black.
It’s the same here as there,
except you left something here.
It can’t be killed and hell won’t have it.
But I will.