I turn ciguanaba cloaked in river
blood, face of horse or hair or hell. I strip
down to my slip and wait to catch them in
my snare. Arms long and lasso-like, my dark
yellowed eyes lure them in. Dizzying in
a wink. Fingers extend, wiry, showing
off this manicure de mugre, my nails
bite into monstrous men and make them mad.
They ask for it, their deaths—something about how
they walked into their wives fist-first, or lost
their hands up someone’s skirt. I come to them
dream-like, at first. Tell them to find me at
the finca’s edge. They always come looking
for me. As if they don’t know what’s coming.