Aubade

Waking to pale light from sweat 

above & below in sheets like a swamp, 

my body damp as if swimming 

& streaked with salt, I kick the covers back

to cool, to dry, to wonder why

we stayed in there starving 

for days, so many of us, including 

the toddler with her artificial arms, 

my brother loading his truck with engines 

darkened by grease, my partner

filling a larger truck with everything

we owned: that was the second

after the concert hall dream, 

the black-on-white sketch of the mafia don

portrayed in first position on stage 

as if I only, seated close to the orchestra 

performing my minor role, 

knew how he’d stolen 

my real life where the tarantula 

sleeps on the opuntia, where 

hummingbirds suckle at nectar- 

brimming yellow flowers, 

where swallows swoop into Cafayate 

on the 16th of November.

Grammastola sp.?