Henut, bare-backed and expensive,
lolls with the girls:
Chloe, Isabel, Francesca.
Oiled bodies, white towels.

In the Greyhound station
I took from my greatcoat pocket
the soap I stole from her bathroom,
opened one end of the wrapper,
held her perfume to my nose. Snow
in the streets, the buses
steaming, this is all of Winnipeg
I remember: snow, steam, the soap
in its dark red wrapper.

Filtered sunlight washes
the latin baroque coral and white,
dull silver and white.
To the rhythm of hushed maracas
they drift to the bar.
In the flurry of small-talk
a man with a mustache and gold teeth
leans with a smirk and nudges
her dubonnet. It bursts like blood
on her breast. I
am that man.
With a monogrammed handkerchief.

Into her wintry bathroom
I carried a potted palm, while she
sat naked, pissing. I imprisoned her
with foliage and left her there.
I took a bus. I sought the sun.
I have never yet seen Rio.