Saturday, January 20, 2018



In the yellow sand of the arroyo
A red cactus blossom
threads through the eye of a skull.
La Llorona knows its secrets.
La Loba runs past, sniffing.
Though it's still early in the morning,
Abuela stirs huitlacoche over a fire.
Those who know, will buy it.
She can already see Marisol coming,
bending over in her embroidered blouse,
the flash of her smile
a glint in Abuela's obsidian eyes.

When the wind is out of breath, I retreat to the mother-roots, to the heartwood, through dragon-whispers of darklight to the song of th...

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