When in the Mexican un-bulbed archive she
found the document,
knew she’d steal it, hide it in the scents
of her lace under-things,
that they of course irrelevant,
containers, even marriages, just containers,
and that despite her open tea-olive scent persistent
enough to mask the glee she’d felt stealing,
revealing to her indigenous house-mate Liliana
who the initial thief was, how and how often he’d signed
the title, included his addresses,
his swollen stream of relatives,
she, Marnie the gringa researcher
pressed the document she’d memorized closer
to her bodice,
winged herself,
and finding Lillie,
regaled her
with her lush and landed future,
the presence of a future.