By the pool the vultures
circled and perched on the roof
to watch his naked body rock

over mine. Danger
is never as interesting
as the possibility

of danger. As if wanting
me were a song he hummed
without knowing, I listened

with eyes closed and waited
for the pattern to break.
The chachalaca sang

like scrap metal dragged
across more scrap metal.
We lay all day like fruit

burst open for the birds to take
and awoke at night to a crashing
outside our room,

which was not a break-in
but the crude drum
of the mangos falling

in the garden
out of their ripe skins.
No pomp, just bruising.

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