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You called me brave
and I smiled to myself, thrilled at the thought of some self of mine as a protector wielding a bow, all grace. I stood with my feet apart clawed my way up out of myself chills spread like flames over my shoulders and faced this straight on. I felt this infinite feeling in the last second, elated nerves running held tight to the fear in my heart. I traded every weapon for a shield and started down the mountainside when the clouds give way to sky and stars shake off their bright disguises I hope you can see them. Loretta knew mountains would clash tonight. She stepped into her living room, startled to see her
guardian, Kenneth, leaning on her two-seater couch, his fingers drumming on his lap. He stood up the moment he sniffed her presence. “Loretta, I hope you know it's tonight?” he said, bowing as though she were some kind of royalty. Although she was. But she loathed it when it was shoved in her face. “I know. I wish I could avoid it or simply prevent it from happening.” her voice lacked the fervency she'd rather it held. Kenneth's regard conformed. “I know you wish that, but if you'd obeyed your parents, everything shouldn't have been the way it is right now.” She shrugged, knew he meant well, but still disregarded him. What was the need to have a third party constantly poking their nose in her business in the name of checking up? She seethed as she walked, languid, to the nearest couch on which she slumped. The past haunted her, why the need to return to it to rewrite it came up. The need to amend the mistake she made. She just couldn't wrap her head around why her parents had assigned Kenneth to her when she could take care of herself. Not exactly power-wise, she knew, as she had no power, the topmost chance to leave her vulnerable to the force searching for her. Her refusal to complete the ritual into womanhood and fully activate her power had landed her in this pitiable situation and she had to change it. Content warning: allusions to domestic abuse
The screeches we heard at night were pumas, barn owls, and El Sibador. They came when the white men came. My mamá spoke of the Cihuateteo, luring us westward when we did not come home before the sun set. Yamilex scared me with tales of La Llorona when I would stray too close to the waters of the river in the basin, but I know she was more concerned with the Sánchez Navarro men seeing me and becoming too friendly. I chose to become too friendly with one of them before she could catch me, and we were married in the summer of 1935, when I was seventeen years old. He was twenty-four, and a white man. On the night before my wedding, a white man's wedding, my cousin Citlali told me I shouldn't have done it. Yamilex scolded her with her eyes, thinking I wasn't watching, but I already knew that neither of them wanted me to marry this man. But I loved him, and I still love him, in a way. They were older and thought they knew better. It wasn't until I had my own daughters that I understood how they felt. Weeks before the wedding day, my mamá spoke in the old language about something I could only understand as sadness and disappointment. Then she told me she was happy, and that my papá would have been happy and given my husband great bride gifts. We had nothing to give now, the four of us women, but he wanted me anyway, and I moved with him across the basin to a real house. He built it himself after we met, with the Sánchez Navarro money, and it had four bedrooms. For us and our three sons, he told me, and I beamed back at him as he carried me to the wedding bed. Four-thousand-and-fifty days, five-thousand nights,
A grey-haired woman peers through her telescope, Searching for the moon that wanders alone, Yearning for the shadow that once embraced it. The pitch-black umbra surrounds the moon, A throwback to that starry night of old, When Luftwaffe's flames kindled the flicker, And the face of death shimmered in her world. Two barrage balloons fell from the sky, As thunder roared through angry, black clouds, She glimpsed fragments of a dive bomber's skin, Painting the heavens amidst her bird's feathers. With avocado toast and Americano dark roast
Hot chicken mushroom soup with a cottage tulip vase Made by your mother who now has the vote Soft background music and art therapy All done by your sisters who now have the vote Dime-store perfume and a fat cat All in your granny’s house who now have the vote A few hundred years that Adam was in charge But now it’s Eve too, she has the vote. Real Witches dress in ordinary clothes and look very much like ordinary women. They live in
ordinary houses and work in ordinary jobs. That is why they are so hard to catch. – Roald Dahl, The Witches. A throwaway remark, wicked whispers in the dark A tumour turned cancerous Rumours, harassment, persecution grew Whispers became deafening Dr. Blasey Ford Explained,
“Indelible in the Hippocampus is the Laughter,” and I Still Can’t Forget It Ishmael was cast out in a wood, beyond the reach of God’s voice, trembling. A fierce black cat,
Outside your house invoking a doomy omen. I stop at the intersection of Four directions- Heart/Mind/Soul & the body Each standing at the crossroads, Leading nobody to nowhere. Where am I? Perhaps there, where- Love slips from one wall to another Falling onto her shoulders, sugar by sugar Salt by salt…sprinkling death Speaking life Honey, I miss your Mother. My grandfather never wore yellow
It reminded him of his hair and being his father’s heir Before they turned grey and fell out like a snake shedding skin He hoped he wouldn’t bequeath it to his kin Sticking up from behind his ears in every photograph Hay-coloured giving fever to those who recognized The lack of slick The lack of father Like the stone of a plum
Ripped from its core And caught between your teeth Is that how it felt to suck on me? Twiddle my heart between index and thumb Taste the sweetness of my love And spit me back out when I’m bone dry. |