I carry water in my lungs, mother,
pneumonia, they say.

I broke my right hand into pieces,
gave it to a hungry field rabbit—
and its gaze bit me.
My eyes shattered on my cheeks
like seas without shores,
foams touching
the luminous wedding train of the sun.
They invaded my throat in sleep,
my nostrils,
dripping down my back
like cold water from a prison shower.
And I slept with the window open.

Now I have high fever,
as if all my poor blood had flowed out,
catching fire upon my body.

Still,
if my right hand grows back
I would give it to a creature of the night.