Coatlicue lifts a brown finger at me.
It does not belong to her. We do not discuss this.
She instructs: Lose what you may, keep forever your defenses.
No one catches this exchange. In the Museo Antropologia, I step the stone quiet corridors, peer
into centuries of rage, of senseless understanding. I catch the straying dog eyes of an indifferent god.
In the morning, I call my mother with jacaranda dreams:
Driving on the highway, there is a sick man, wide mouthed and ashen, walking barefoot.
He drags in the dirt his feathered wings. Drags the purple, tiny trumpet flowers, their song wilting.
How strange, my mother says, for you to dream what I have lived.
Absent-minded, I touch a finger to my toothy necklace.
Who's memories do I see? Which life of ours belongs to me?
very beautiful
ReplyDelete<3 this, jacaranda dreams
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