One day, nameless limbs, small square
of sidewalk, like a fig fallen too soon.
The next, a gang member’s mascot, beast
born from an Arab’s love, coked-up rats.
A woman in tragedy will also grow that fast,
turn from whimpers to wind in seconds
with the right kind of violence, and after,
make herself a home for the lost
who look for it.
—from “Ode to Bodega Cats”