How I Pray in
a Little Known Chapel
in Granada,
Nicaragua
JAN/2018
JThis. This ringing. The quiet
eye of my god. This gyroscope
the wheel the baton the scourge.
This whistle. This confusing
shriek. The muscle hard
a pulled saltwater taffy
skin of papaya. This skin
porous pumice map of splinters
Spindles and fingers this is this
clouds whipped to frenzy. This
electric mouth that spins the
blue-bottled blues the dizzying
cornea stems and rods.
these podium breasts
fire-engine lung
far-flung net of ignorance
across international borders
This. This secret. The quiet
descent and fascination
obtuse self-immolation
this adultery
this line
break
these brutish desires
This sucker punch rotgut need
clandestine addiction
fanciful predilections
This. This ringing. This
unspeaking gaping mouth of my god.
Or Flight
Remove your shoes and leave them by
the door to his home. You will not
be allowed to stay long. Tread paper
thin as ghost. Watch as muscles
stretch into smile. Remember not to
take this act as truth. Eat only
what he gives and nothing more. His
food is brittle. It is Autumn’s dead
leaves ? beautiful but startlingly
empty of life. He will offer you a
chair, a grackle, a shot of vodka.
Together you will reminisce about
the womb you once shared, your
penchant for the drink, that one
time you both rode in a limo as
sleek and black as bottom feeder.
The city lights had bounced and
shimmered their reflection from all
that tinted glass. The mirror image
of your smiles almost too good to be
a lie. Keep one eye on the clock,
the other on the ashtray. The smoke
will soon choke the room. The smoke
will soon wrap clinging fingers
about your neck and rattle your
carriage. The smoke will soon have
its way with you. Do not forget
about your shoes at the doorway. An
impending getaway is close. His
teeth are sloppy. His eyes too
shiny. He spits more than he speaks.
It is a cruelty you still marvel at
to this day.
It is your father’s favorite knife
handed down as heirloom. A dangerous
and glittering bloodletting in your
back. You are solitary witness to
this disassembling. The music is
banging again. It clangs its way
into your ears and down your throat.
A garbled elixir. He rambles on
about his own desires and
sycophantic
philosophies. He has shat himself
again with all this righteousness.
You are a livewire on the edge of
your seat. The last wayward
cigarette hissing in the pot. You
only came to convey with your eyes
that you love him. The lamp catches
fire. The drapes incendiary with
their madness. The television bursts
into bright bubble. Shame and
indignation have coupled violently.
Steak knives and plates rattle from
their cages. Beers burp their
excuses. You will now take leave
from all this mess. This sour soup.
This spit and bright noise. He has
stolen away to the kitchen and mixes
a Molotov at the counter. It is a
fiery reminder that you should
leave. When his back is to you slink
away. Do not let your keys clatter
your purse. Slip one then the other
shoe onto exiting feet. He is mumble
crazy and only two mouthfuls away
from screaming the word bitch. Two
shooters away from a handful of your
hair. The carnage is too real. His
house, an inferno. His house a
tinderbox. The smoke, gutwrenchboil.
A rolling black intrusion. Leave.
Leave now. Wave to him like you did
when you were both children.
Dandelion soft. Like a pinwheel
whipping in the wind. The door knob
will feel guiltily good in your
palm, a smooth golden globule cool
and reassuring. Close the door
behind you. Softly and without
anger. Pretend.
That you are not a coward. This is
how you say goodbye to your brother.
Diana the Huntress
They say the number four bus enjoyed
a certain reputation
its tires swaggering down a hilly
road pockmarked by sage brush
loose in the axle like a man with
too many beers under his belt
the fear exhaled from the women’s
nostrils
fueled the trek ? a hot mist moist
with the tang of terror
bus windows fogged by morning vapor
opaque and rheumy long after the
women had vacated their seats
I took a pistol and placed a bullet
into the bus driver’s temple
easily I deposited it there
the sun made a wistful track along
the soot-covered sky
and the maquilas shut their metal
doors against the day
El Paso glittered like a City of
Gold from the other side of the
border
a muffled silence settled into all
of our bones
at the arrival of the next dawn
I took a second bullet
silver as the single bead from the
rosary my mother wore around her
neck
pregnant in the womb of the chamber
the bullet spat with quickfire and
lodged
into the second man’s brain
again no pity, no sorrow-colored
remorse
only the old number four tossed like
a tin can
I walked away and did not run from
the
dead man bloated and gray faced
is back and arms laced with the
scarred
scratches made by the women who had
not got away
The newspapers jabbered like angry
bees
and the AP wire was alive with the
electricity of my name
Diana the Huntress
and I fear no moon, Lady of Wild
Creatures
La Cazadora worshipped by the
womanly workforce
of Juarez
My sisters are frightened mares
Some might say I will perish in hell
with the rest of them
the men ? adept at removing women’s
faces
removing their breasts like too-soon
petals
the milk of their skin, the floating
flotsam
peeled beneath the killer’s knife
They like to leave behind bite marks
on the buttocks
They like to leave behind dead
babies cradled within eviscerated
wombs
Decomposed flesh resting inside
decomposed flesh
And should I burn in the seventh
layer
it is of no consequence to me
place me in hell and I will kill
them all again
should my skin peel from my bones
incinerated by the heat of the
oldest sin
I will always think it worth it
judge me Creator for I fear no moon
no man
no law
no lawlessness
no rampage
I only ever wanted to fashion birds
with these hands
I only ever wanted soft
righteousness not a countryside
riddled with the husks of dead raped
women
They were like wild mustangs, the
dark-eyed girls, cuckolded
shepherded to the slaughter knees
like young colts,
necks bared and naked breasts an
offering to the swine
All of their holes raped, looted and
left to spoil
the assembly plants are swollen with
the limbs of women
the dirt is caked with their blood
Don’t you know
you who wrought me
wrenched me from my terrible anger
dug out from the shell of my sleep
with a dirty fingernail
my rebirth whispered
upon the dying lips of women
one last jewel of blood dropped to
the floor
reaping
sowing
beseeching
vengeance
one fine golden
and glorious
day
