I lay on the floor,
tossing coins around.
peeled my tank top off,
I’m topless, down to underwear.
fan pointed right at me.
according to my hand,
I’ve got six more hours
of this. acid is unforgiving
in its length and it’s eighty three
degrees outside    I still
don’t know who the little
girl is.
Catarina.

I sobbed for forty five minutes
under a willow as people
walked their dogs.
pay my respects to some
marble obelisk in front of me.
some memory lurched
from the root.
a well.

“I guess with about a 98.6% accuracy,” I told her.

I’m  shrewd and
uncharacteristically
sentimental over this.
look up at the yellow boxed
mirror:
your name is Catarina
and I see the snaggy corners
lift. lips are sand
dry and my teeth,
blinding.
my men say I sneer.

your name is Catarina,
dear.

“the name game”

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