Mama, she always says
she doesn’t know how a child
could have brown eyes like
this
mine are made of Italy but
speak only
Nahuatl,
so lost that she cannot find me
before her as though my body and my
real self are two different children
from two different men
I told her I am a dream stinking
of a cementeria,
off a ghost clenching the coat tails
of a barrio I will never have,
The confused blood
of a bugambilia dying
in the winter.
Finding Quetzalcoatl: A Study in Point of View
Sofia looked into the water and watched her eyes reflect back. They were the color of dried soil. Most of them were standing behind her, waiting, singing their psalms and crossing their foreheads. Town slut, witch, boo-tah, they called her. These were the dull-eyed monsters from America and in moments, through the surface of water, she would be in Mexico again. She would become a phantom, and she would fly through their high windows to blow the heavens into their ears.
The people knew nothing of La Llorona, or of Fantasmas or magia or of the veil between the other worlds and ours, and they knew nothing of the people of Mexico, who lived their lives in holy step with the the secret, bloody, pulsing heart of divinity.
Sofia thought magick was found in belief, not in execution, and no matter how many times she did their estúpido penance work, she would never go to heaven, to meet their blue-eyed god.
-----
"I don't want her to die, Mama," the little pale girl said, the one with the velvet the bible in hand, and her doe-eyed stare. "I want her to grow up and teach me about magic and flowers and bath spells all those things." She begged her mother, she wanted to know why everyone called Sofia from Mexico the devil, and why they all went to church and prayed for their children and their households. "Mama, why don't we pray for Sofia is she sick?" She listened to her Mama say, "We can't pray for the devil. You say another word and Mama's gonna wash your mouth out."
------
He loved her, that brown-skinned girl. He loved the way her dress always came up above her ankles, and the way she counted the flowers she plucked, thanked the Gods for letting her take them, and talked about how marigolds make dreams come true. He loved when she talked of the dead and how she respects them more than the living. "They know more than we do," she told him. "That is why we worship them." He wanted to save her, standing their, her hands tied behind her back looking into the water. He cried as they tied the brick to her back, and pushed her in.
Sink, sink, sink!
Sophia saw the bottom of the lake as she would the old Mexican gods, those perfect creatures living in children's heads whose hearts were fluttering with the color of daydreams. This was the final place, where she would forget the dim colors of mortality. The bottom of the lake, coming toward her like the hands of her beloved gentle Quetzalcoatl, became the archway to an infinity where color was replaced by flowers blooming into reality from little holes in the Universe, creating elaborate vines where marigolds mothered roses and serpent Gods slept on petals. Here were the writhing giants trapped in thoughts and prayers, and the feathered serpents choking the breath from the Holy Father. Not on purpose, but because the world spins so quickly, and because the stars are so bright that snakes are sometimes drunk on all heavenly dance, Quetzalcoatl scaled into the churches and tried to dance with Jesus.
The white man with the translucent eyes, with his hands tucked up into the shape of a perfect steeple, he didn't dance. The snake was sorrowful. "Why won't you dance with me. Danza. Move."
The Jesus' eyes were empty and longed for a way to step down from the cross, off of his ivory pedestal, and so he bowed toward the serpent and murmured to himself a prayer.
Quetzalcoatl laughed, and asked how powerful a God could be if he were found praying for salvation. "Jesus, are you not the manifestation of God himself? Hola, ¿usted es dios, no?"
Jesus quivered, backing away from Quetzalcoatl's feathers, which both tickled and agitated him. "I am the son of God."
Sophia was just outside the great church, falling into the palms of a beauty she always imagined but could never understand. In this heaven, there is a ranchero filled with sunlight, always skimming the surface of every body and lighting them enough with the color of sun that no one is forgotten and everywhere is seen. There would be music and food forever, and here, the Old World Gods would eat pan de muerto with you, because you're dead and why not celebrate?
Jesus and Quetzalcoatl talked for a bit, deciding that they could split the heavens to the East of Cassiopeia. "La Diabla is in the South, of course and there are a few others somewhere out there, so if you will tell your people to stop killing my people, por favor, por favor. ESTÁ LOCO...I will stop scaring your white land and your white people by coming into their dreams and telling them all about how we swoop around on the Calle drinking the blood of babies. You know it's a joke, una broma . . . at least these days."
Sophia shut her eyes and rested, and Quetzalcoatl stomped out of the church, un hombre feliz, a divine businessman, and held her in his scales. He brought her to the place where all the heaven looked like a dream and followed no rules. Sometimes those translucent people would tromp over the border in the sky and say, "Oh my Good god. Where are we?"
To which they would reply, "You are in Mexico. Also known as heaven."
The people knew nothing of La Llorona, or of Fantasmas or magia or of the veil between the other worlds and ours, and they knew nothing of the people of Mexico, who lived their lives in holy step with the the secret, bloody, pulsing heart of divinity.
Sofia thought magick was found in belief, not in execution, and no matter how many times she did their estúpido penance work, she would never go to heaven, to meet their blue-eyed god.
-----
"I don't want her to die, Mama," the little pale girl said, the one with the velvet the bible in hand, and her doe-eyed stare. "I want her to grow up and teach me about magic and flowers and bath spells all those things." She begged her mother, she wanted to know why everyone called Sofia from Mexico the devil, and why they all went to church and prayed for their children and their households. "Mama, why don't we pray for Sofia is she sick?" She listened to her Mama say, "We can't pray for the devil. You say another word and Mama's gonna wash your mouth out."
------
He loved her, that brown-skinned girl. He loved the way her dress always came up above her ankles, and the way she counted the flowers she plucked, thanked the Gods for letting her take them, and talked about how marigolds make dreams come true. He loved when she talked of the dead and how she respects them more than the living. "They know more than we do," she told him. "That is why we worship them." He wanted to save her, standing their, her hands tied behind her back looking into the water. He cried as they tied the brick to her back, and pushed her in.
Sink, sink, sink!
Sophia saw the bottom of the lake as she would the old Mexican gods, those perfect creatures living in children's heads whose hearts were fluttering with the color of daydreams. This was the final place, where she would forget the dim colors of mortality. The bottom of the lake, coming toward her like the hands of her beloved gentle Quetzalcoatl, became the archway to an infinity where color was replaced by flowers blooming into reality from little holes in the Universe, creating elaborate vines where marigolds mothered roses and serpent Gods slept on petals. Here were the writhing giants trapped in thoughts and prayers, and the feathered serpents choking the breath from the Holy Father. Not on purpose, but because the world spins so quickly, and because the stars are so bright that snakes are sometimes drunk on all heavenly dance, Quetzalcoatl scaled into the churches and tried to dance with Jesus.
The white man with the translucent eyes, with his hands tucked up into the shape of a perfect steeple, he didn't dance. The snake was sorrowful. "Why won't you dance with me. Danza. Move."
The Jesus' eyes were empty and longed for a way to step down from the cross, off of his ivory pedestal, and so he bowed toward the serpent and murmured to himself a prayer.
Quetzalcoatl laughed, and asked how powerful a God could be if he were found praying for salvation. "Jesus, are you not the manifestation of God himself? Hola, ¿usted es dios, no?"
Jesus quivered, backing away from Quetzalcoatl's feathers, which both tickled and agitated him. "I am the son of God."
Sophia was just outside the great church, falling into the palms of a beauty she always imagined but could never understand. In this heaven, there is a ranchero filled with sunlight, always skimming the surface of every body and lighting them enough with the color of sun that no one is forgotten and everywhere is seen. There would be music and food forever, and here, the Old World Gods would eat pan de muerto with you, because you're dead and why not celebrate?
Jesus and Quetzalcoatl talked for a bit, deciding that they could split the heavens to the East of Cassiopeia. "La Diabla is in the South, of course and there are a few others somewhere out there, so if you will tell your people to stop killing my people, por favor, por favor. ESTÁ LOCO...I will stop scaring your white land and your white people by coming into their dreams and telling them all about how we swoop around on the Calle drinking the blood of babies. You know it's a joke, una broma . . . at least these days."
Sophia shut her eyes and rested, and Quetzalcoatl stomped out of the church, un hombre feliz, a divine businessman, and held her in his scales. He brought her to the place where all the heaven looked like a dream and followed no rules. Sometimes those translucent people would tromp over the border in the sky and say, "Oh my Good god. Where are we?"
To which they would reply, "You are in Mexico. Also known as heaven."
Mis Gracias
My love says to me:
the light is found in your eyes
and reflects back,
and then we
remember Don Rogelio,
the man who gives us
chile and peppers
de el sabor de Hatch, New Mexico
and asks us to sell his food
en Nueva York,
and tells us stories of
his abuelo, Don Guillermo,
who was born in the church at the Mesilla Plaza,
who left with Pancho Villa
and returned with a sombrero
"What a gentleman!" we cry.
and, in seeing all of this,
we have lighthouse sex on
white quilts,
blessed, throwing God
to all shores.
the light is found in your eyes
and reflects back,
and then we
remember Don Rogelio,
the man who gives us
chile and peppers
de el sabor de Hatch, New Mexico
and asks us to sell his food
en Nueva York,
and tells us stories of
his abuelo, Don Guillermo,
who was born in the church at the Mesilla Plaza,
who left with Pancho Villa
and returned with a sombrero
"What a gentleman!" we cry.
and, in seeing all of this,
we have lighthouse sex on
white quilts,
blessed, throwing God
to all shores.
Abundance
Someone asks me why I cannot breathe,
they say my face is red,
usted mira todos rojos
and I tell them that
it all started to feel like a coffin
sometime last February
Cannot shake it, no?
I say no, no I cannot.
I do not mean to sound
rude, no, but
I have skeletons at my back
who are begging to finally sleep.
My mother weeps and
cleans the house with
my tears.
they say my face is red,
usted mira todos rojos
and I tell them that
it all started to feel like a coffin
sometime last February
Cannot shake it, no?
I say no, no I cannot.
I do not mean to sound
rude, no, but
I have skeletons at my back
who are begging to finally sleep.
My mother weeps and
cleans the house with
my tears.
Uso las flores en mi pelo
Mesilleros bury their poorest without names,
with una cruz de madera.
No hablo español bien, pero
intento.
We are in the cementerio de Mesilla,
and we bring chocolate from
The Chocolate Lady and una cafe,
our ofrenda
and we sit under the sun by
Señor Guitterez, pretending to
love Muerte,
but dear God, I am scared because this all
is sorrowfully
beautiful,
and I wear flowers in my hair
because we do not live long enough
with una cruz de madera.
No hablo español bien, pero
intento.
We are in the cementerio de Mesilla,
and we bring chocolate from
The Chocolate Lady and una cafe,
our ofrenda
and we sit under the sun by
Señor Guitterez, pretending to
love Muerte,
but dear God, I am scared because this all
is sorrowfully
beautiful,
and I wear flowers in my hair
because we do not live long enough
Language
¿Soy en Cielo?
¿Estoy en Cielo?
Someone tell
la lengue de español
that they must find
words that are written for the
heart.
I will be here always,
parts of me,
my hands are left on Calle de Guadalupe
and my tears, ribboned
down Calle de Parian, where
I was lost and found
and lost and found again.
¿Estoy en Cielo?
Someone tell
la lengue de español
that they must find
words that are written for the
heart.
I will be here always,
parts of me,
my hands are left on Calle de Guadalupe
and my tears, ribboned
down Calle de Parian, where
I was lost and found
and lost and found again.
We Are in Mexico
The Writer
says to me,
you are here, you are in
Mexico.
Mesilleros know
where they sleep each night.
Borders are for
men without hearts.
They dream in green
and love in red,
and are haunted by
La Llorona in white.
says to me,
you are here, you are in
Mexico.
Mesilleros know
where they sleep each night.
Borders are for
men without hearts.
They dream in green
and love in red,
and are haunted by
La Llorona in white.
Lungamente vive l'incubo
I
White flowers make no impression;
these are the hours where giants
weep, jaws falling from lips,
a nightmare.
You are lost to the sea,
a sailor, stricken with the call
of an ill phantom
I am moored,
plucking flowers, seeking God,
holding the hands of statues,
misery in my filthy little hunch,
of course,
misery.
II
I have a broken shoulder, a cough,
damp walls
the witches say to mix
in the tears of
goats, and
a dandelions,
lungamente vive l'incubo!
oh, you must come home.
White flowers make no impression;
these are the hours where giants
weep, jaws falling from lips,
a nightmare.
You are lost to the sea,
a sailor, stricken with the call
of an ill phantom
I am moored,
plucking flowers, seeking God,
holding the hands of statues,
misery in my filthy little hunch,
of course,
misery.
II
I have a broken shoulder, a cough,
damp walls
the witches say to mix
in the tears of
goats, and
a dandelions,
lungamente vive l'incubo!
oh, you must come home.
Daily Bread
To think of lace,
can I put my thigh in
your hands,
most of them call me a lady of the flesh
can I use this syringe on
you while you are sleeping
to push my
mouth inside your throat
for all time
they call me a rapist
my worship is
crippled but pure
can I put my thigh in
your hands,
most of them call me a lady of the flesh
can I use this syringe on
you while you are sleeping
to push my
mouth inside your throat
for all time
they call me a rapist
my worship is
crippled but pure
The Blood and the Sky
It is dolent, the heart.
Going on, bloodied,
with love watching
and dying anyways.
How, with your hands,
is there no God?
Going on, bloodied,
with love watching
and dying anyways.
How, with your hands,
is there no God?
Figli Di San Gennaro
We dance with San Gennaro and
the drunks and their hoaxes
behind the manger.
The crucifix loves us, doesn't it?
because we have spent
our days and nights
praying.
The Saint is in bed with
American dollar bills,
he's got his tongue around
cheap, pink rosaries.
And then we are there,
the only real ghosts,
immortal procession
through the skin of
Gods and Catholics,
the only real everlasting blood.
the drunks and their hoaxes
behind the manger.
The crucifix loves us, doesn't it?
because we have spent
our days and nights
praying.
The Saint is in bed with
American dollar bills,
he's got his tongue around
cheap, pink rosaries.
And then we are there,
the only real ghosts,
immortal procession
through the skin of
Gods and Catholics,
the only real everlasting blood.
Rojo Vivo
We also have table wine.
She is here,
and Jabez, too.
They just say all about
Jude 8
and the way most breasts
and most stars imitate the devil,
the things we dream.
There are velas santas,
mostly white magic from the place
they call botanica girasol,
and she puts them into my hands.
She has sweaty, fat fingers,
clutching the numbers of
dreams
11.39.51, lust.
She says to do away with this,
el rojo llega a ser blanco con amor
She is here,
and Jabez, too.
They just say all about
Jude 8
and the way most breasts
and most stars imitate the devil,
the things we dream.
There are velas santas,
mostly white magic from the place
they call botanica girasol,
and she puts them into my hands.
She has sweaty, fat fingers,
clutching the numbers of
dreams
11.39.51, lust.
She says to do away with this,
el rojo llega a ser blanco con amor
Whores
When a dirty cunt is
smeared across the face of a
true gentlemen, I cry for what feels like
years, and you tell me that I am
beautiful.
When you came back from
Mexico with her,
and you told me you did not
sleep with her,
my language failed:
no estoy en amor con mentiras.
no estoy en amor con mentiras
no estoy en amor con mentiras
smeared across the face of a
true gentlemen, I cry for what feels like
years, and you tell me that I am
beautiful.
When you came back from
Mexico with her,
and you told me you did not
sleep with her,
my language failed:
no estoy en amor con mentiras.
no estoy en amor con mentiras
no estoy en amor con mentiras
The Afterward
Mother, when my arms
are covered in moles
and I am quietly counting
my last stars,
will I remember staring up
at the red planet
and thinking God was bleeding
tears into his fists,
and will I see that
that love was not the
inferno we knew it once to be,
and because I will have
parted with him, and waited
sick in my empty bed,
will energy
make love to energy, and
will I see you again?
are covered in moles
and I am quietly counting
my last stars,
will I remember staring up
at the red planet
and thinking God was bleeding
tears into his fists,
and will I see that
that love was not the
inferno we knew it once to be,
and because I will have
parted with him, and waited
sick in my empty bed,
will energy
make love to energy, and
will I see you again?
Summer Blood
You left the chalice at the windowsill, and
water mixed with blood.
We slept with our feet facing
North, fingers woven with
Misery's lips and breasts.
There, now, is only blood.
We sleep facing South,
alive and fat and rich with
pulsing red sorrow,
and pulsing red spirit.
water mixed with blood.
We slept with our feet facing
North, fingers woven with
Misery's lips and breasts.
There, now, is only blood.
We sleep facing South,
alive and fat and rich with
pulsing red sorrow,
and pulsing red spirit.
The Seer II
Your mother calls,
says you're thin enough.
You will meet a man
named Santos
in three years,
and you will shine then,
right there sweaty in the
bed next to me,
still.
says you're thin enough.
You will meet a man
named Santos
in three years,
and you will shine then,
right there sweaty in the
bed next to me,
still.
The Seer
Your mother calls,
says you're thin
enough.
You will meet a man
named Santos
in three years,
and you will shine then.
I am never mentioned.
says you're thin
enough.
You will meet a man
named Santos
in three years,
and you will shine then.
I am never mentioned.
Stems
The flowers are dead,
a lost orange.
The afternoon I held them,
I did not want them
because I ask for gifts
and all I have are ghosts.
See this.
The flowers could be immortal,
they could bleed onto our
foreheads as we slept,
and I would still
ask for more flowers,
until the room
until the world
filled,
a violent thrush of color
to mask sadness.
a lost orange.
The afternoon I held them,
I did not want them
because I ask for gifts
and all I have are ghosts.
See this.
The flowers could be immortal,
they could bleed onto our
foreheads as we slept,
and I would still
ask for more flowers,
until the room
until the world
filled,
a violent thrush of color
to mask sadness.
Not the sea, the sun
No one ever tells the man
in the lighthouse
to go to bed.
He's always looking out
between his hands,
coughing paintings
of dreams
into the mist
Great bags under his eyes,
hands like shriveled
tea bags,
the magic of
spells sitting in
old skulls,
green candles for prosperity
and red for love,
and white for purity
but the Mermaid never comes.
in the lighthouse
to go to bed.
He's always looking out
between his hands,
coughing paintings
of dreams
into the mist
Great bags under his eyes,
hands like shriveled
tea bags,
the magic of
spells sitting in
old skulls,
green candles for prosperity
and red for love,
and white for purity
but the Mermaid never comes.
Sleep, Monster
You have no hair,
you have no legs,
you have no mother,
you have no children,
you were all the
thinnest things
made of sun,
and you swam your
way across
the Sargasso sea,
to swim between the
Spanish skulls
shimmering between
seaweed arms,
and you live
quietly
where God shows
the Monsters out
of your doors.
you have no legs,
you have no mother,
you have no children,
you were all the
thinnest things
made of sun,
and you swam your
way across
the Sargasso sea,
to swim between the
Spanish skulls
shimmering between
seaweed arms,
and you live
quietly
where God shows
the Monsters out
of your doors.
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