You travel the world
behind a veil
of reverence and alarm
the women carrying jugs of water
like a second head
the children crammed
everywhere
that rawboned rooster
that looked over your shoulder for hours
as you tried to read
on the bus
and then last night
as you fell asleep
in the suburbs
the fan above the bed
throwing its wind
you wondered what they would think of you
lying naked and calm
as though there weren’t blades
flinging around wildly
one loose screw
from cutting off
your face.