Cenex leaves Poseidon.

What’s the word for breaking a sweat when you fill out your name?

When I came out, I kept no memories.

When I came out and was better,

I was given dates for my compliance.

To reach the office, I had to walk down

an avenue flooded with the husks

of schools, now private parking lots,

now asking for directions,

now assuredly here.

It is hard to know if I was first a stranger to myself

or to invasive species. The sapo concho was brought

to cure sugarcane of parasites. It is now ours, operatic,

sexual, pleated with boils. It eats cat food

and joins pigeons and hens.

The strangers who moved here brought an ocelot

they hope to raise on an empty farm.

They are huddled in assaulted towns.

To call them settlers is to confess permanence.

When I first left Poseidon, I didn’t recognize

buildings. The others had stayed behind to finish

training or to die on operating tables, or they fled

and were eaten by church organs and fear.

But I knew that if I wanted to make my way

in our newly discovered world,

I would have to forget like a habit.

May the old gods forgive me

for outlasting.