In one of her furies she fired the maid,
Her fingers curled into the girl’s hair like an intimacy.

She bent them both close to the tiled floor,
Started spitting, snarling: calling her whore and wicked,

Placed the girls mouth against the imperfect crystals of dust,
Made her lick them, eat them.

It isn’t good enough, everything here should be gleaming white
She kept screaming dirty, lazy, bitch she kept screaming.

He had returned by now, watched her hungry, with half lidded eyes.
She kept shifting her anger from one foot to another, the maid was crying.

She was very beautiful and young; seventeen, eighteen black fingerprints
Remained imprinted against her skin. There was no severance package,

She was from the sea while they walked with blood-sure divinity
Along the rich towers of their cities.