Coffee with Condensed Milk and Cigarettes

there's a sparrow in my head
somewhere
telling me
come home.

wouldn't that life be as brown
as his feathers?

exhaust fume headache,
she sighs.

she has three big pins in her head
and she is wondering about all of them.

one sits tightly behind her left ear,
digging into her neck.
one sits parallel to the downward cringe
of her right eyebrow,
just near her her hairline.
the last, between her eyes.

she does not know
how they got there,
but she is stacking the clues:

the empty field;
the men in matching clothes;
the imposed regime of rice.

(she makes weapons out of things now,
she once used as tools).

she takes each tiny
piece of rice

and glues it
carefully -
carefully,

over the scar
she got from straw.