There is an
armadillo burrowed
into my chest.
My breasts
have made way
to accommodate
the armadillo.
I am not sure
how the armadillo
found his way
into my life.
One day I woke up
and there was the armadillo
filling up the arroyo
I have become.
Sometimes
the armadillo
shells out a ballad.
I tell myself
not to feel
for the armadillo.
No respectable woman my age
should feel for an armadillo.
Each day
the armadillo
digs deeper
and deeper
into the cavity
of what used
to be my heart.
