I’m no trouble.
Honest to God I’m not.
I’m not
the kind of woman
who telephones in the middle of the night,
—who told you that?—
splitting the night like machete.
Before and after. After. Before.
No, no, not me.
I’m not
the she who slings words bigger than rocks,
sharper than Houdini knives,
verbal Molotovs.
The one who did that—yo no fuí—
that wasn’t me.
I’m no hysteric,
terrorist,
emotional anarchist.
I keep inside a pumpkin shell.
There I do very well.
my pumpkin-eater roams.
I keep like fruitcake.
Subsist on air.
Not a worry nor care.
Please.
I’m as free for the taking
as the eyes of Saint Lucy.
No trouble at all.
I swear, I swear, I swear …