In this version of the story,
          I pile my hair up and pull out
the coffin nail from the back
          of my neck. My fangs worn clean
by my catlike tongue. I cut out
          my rotting parts, pretty myself up
with frangipani water. My accomplice:
           the night, the frogs refusing to sing.
 
 
I wander the hushed village,
          looking for food left outside
on banana leaves: a chicken bone
          to chew on. A glass of milk to swig.
The wide-eyed shape of a man hitching up
          his sarong, the open plain of his arms:
the ones I gather myself into
          as I lean into his neck and lick
 
 
his throat clean. How his eyes will stay
          with me for days after, even though
I kiss his lids shut, the white of them –
          traced by the sudden flash
of halogen and sickles,
          a new widow’s cry – later, two
pinpricks in the trees, watching
          me undress for the morning.
 
 
How his footsteps will always
          follow a step behind: stopping
when I stop, running when I run.
          The ghost of his hands always
caressing mine, tilting back
          another man’s head as I feast.
His mouth, the shape of it.
          When I sleep I dream of teeth.