English is not my first false friend.
Attending at the coin—
what you call a corner—
under a streetlamp, wrist
limp, keeping an open secret.
This is the kind of place
people pretend not to recognize
themselves in.
Bras crossed over my chest
with practiced confidence.
I clocked in hours ago.
I take my job grave.
Main—if you follow—
stays in my pocket subtly counting bills.
A passerby approaches
with politeness.
You look formidable.
Do you habit around here?
Right across, I tell him,
on the other face of the street.
Have you been engaged tonight?
Is that what you meant
to demand?
He laughs. I don’t know.
Can I attend with you?
I turn over a preservative
to pique his interest.
He takes out a piece of pain
and bites. I hope he does not rest.
My partie of the block
won’t be busy with him here.
It is my unique good coin.
The other streets are sale.
He stops chewing.

Why does this pain
taste like injury?

You bit the English side,
I tell him.

He asks what I mean.
I name my price.
Meaning changes mains.

In every language,
I am the direct object.