La palomita negra

Cómo eres, Frida?

The black dove

spine nailed

and pinned to spikes

of a vermillion cage

You were born out of

Tlazolteotl, Aztec goddess

head drooping in

a puddle of blood

La virgen de las angustias

weeps for you

and your lost child

still born under tears

 

¿Cómo estás, la llorona?

Crossing that river not

even Xoloescuintle can

save you

Quédate en el purgatorio,

los autorretratos de pena

So paint—

Paint it magenta

paint it amarrilla

paint it verde

Pinta lo que se quede

en tu corazón

 

Paint sin esperanza

force feed yourself

the slime of intestines

a mash of palvo and

churrizo a puree of

pollo and calaveras

de azúcar

only to regurgitate

it all—

Paint

 

What scratches inside

your wounds

Scrape it out

with your brush

The bristles are

plasters

 

Plasters that rip

the skin

with every stroke

every graze

Paint a wounded deer

and crown yourself

with antlers

nine arrows pierce

an already

deteriorated body

if you can only

make it to the lightning sky

you might survive

sangre trickles profusely

and carma says no

So you’ll stay in the

árboles, atrapada

 

They take

the scaple to

better you

(to ruin

you)

No hay

un escape

No hay

una despedida

 

Pinta cielos made of

shades of naranja

surround your depleted

worn face with a

wilted sunflower

Seat yourself

one legged

¿Pies pa’ qué los quieres

si tienes alas para volar?

 

So lay yourself

on this

canvas and live

 

Solo vives acá

La paz se halla

en el fuego azul

que quemará

la casita rota

 

Quema el cuerpo y

mantendremos

los restos

Spirals and Coils

I have an obsession with memory. I love how she weaves herself throughout every layer of my being.  I wouldn’t be human without her– the laughter, the tears, the tangled web of emotions.  This prose poem was inspired by the beautiful poet, Rachel Eliza Griffiths, who also has quite a few pieces on memory and her relation to history. Enjoy.

Spirals and Coils

Memory lies in scents of vanilla, my mother taught me.  I can see her in front of me, nude, dressing herself in 6am skies getting ready for work. Vanilla woke me up just in time to see the bright sapphire of the sky competing with the worn, flickering closet light bulb to smooth over her caramel curves. Vanilla is remembering what you want you can’t have.

Memory is seeing your father for the first time and seeing yourself. Memory is the ripple on flesh from the rigid edges of a blade or fourteen needles.  Shades of vermillion, turquoise and sea foam green.  I like the color lime green because I wore black for too long.  Sometimes I remember my orgasms by color.  She wears gold flakes that sparkle in fire under loose moonlight while sharp circles of sorbet orange envelop her, even the taste.  She crawls between my legs and screams out my lovers’ names. Some names I cannot speak because memory is right around the corner.

I found memory in the cracks of my mirror.  Between beauty and blood. In the morning, I dress myself and wear her around my neck like a 6ft scarf. Made of heavy wool.  She delights herself on my smooth skin, roughly biting and kissing my neck. An embroidered necklace of amethyst and ruby. At night, I uncoil and unravel her, yet, somehow she has engraved herself in the fibers of my linens. She seeps through the roots of my coiled hair and I bow down to her in my dreaming.

If I’m by myself, it’s just me and her.  She plays in my hair.

She’s flesh that won’t smooth over.

 

–Luecretia, the esoteric