Desire arrives home
right before the moon falls into la Gonave
and the sun, coy, smelling of human waste,
ascends from its night visit into  Port-au-Prince.

During these dawn raids into our home,
Desire, my bon mari, is always drunk on bark beer
consumed not in a whole evening of empty revelry
but from a moment, maybe a few,
after he has bent his knees,
knotted with the strength of bamboo sticks,
and opened his behind with the stoic arrogance
of a peacock spreading its plume,
to let in strangers from the North
for a gourde or two
to feed our stomachs
and bring color back to the hair of our children.