Waterboarding

Guayacan branches wisp out of root,
shake fists at the ceiling.
Our bound hands scrape
droughts of time from the wall.
17:00.
We may rain.
Other men drip words vertically
down our throats.
A white telephone rings.
Answer, response.
The interrogator turns a page
and we recant the sun. Blanche
our skin in moonbath. Await
thick droplets, twisted teeth
gnaw at thin cloth.
Questions rain. Like
other men, we pray for a
return.
Our mothers in Quetta.