My past selves
do not sit at the table with me
do not speak
with my tantric tongue
But still they haunt me
their wounds, still sore
in the places where my pain
meets the whistling wind.
“No se que tienen las flores , Llorona,
Las flores de un camposanto...
Que cuando las mueve el viento, Llorona,
Parece que están llorando...”
Llorona, for you
I build an altar made
of saltwater tears,
a sketch of your lost son
marigolds for memory
May what is now long gone
down the rushing river
become silt and clay
at the mouth of the ocean.
“¡Ay de mi! Llorona, Llorona
Llorona de un campo lírio...
El que no sabe de amores, Llorona
No sabe lo que es martírio...”
Llorona I know
as women we are taught
to be sacrifice for the señores
who steal our heart
Llorona I know
as women we are taught
to swallow the seeds
that sprout from our mother tongue
hold back our spit
and never voice our distress
“Todos me dicen el negro, Llorona
Negro pero cariñoso...
Yo soy como el chile verde, Llorona
Picante pero sabroso...”
Llorona for you
I build an altar made
of self-respect
skipped river stones
tequila and xocolatl
may all the blood you shed upon the earth
suture in time
and clot.
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