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.