saying “Lizard” or
avoiding the
touch
of iron, or
choosing a
black
dog. Mama stood
as straight
as
only a true
Flamenca can.
She
pulled the dress
over her
head,
careful not to
stain it
with
her blood. In
the moonlight
I
saw how my
mother’s bleak
eyes
had swollen and
turned purple.
But
she licked her
teeth and
smiled
when her tongue
discovered none
missing.
The floor was
checkered with
green
and lavender tiles.
He pointed
at
Mama’s eyes and
joked, “Chop
up
those plums. The
sangria needs
more
fruit.” Everyone laughed.
Mama laughed
loudest—
a laughter bearing
the harshness
of
aborted histories. Then
all crowded
around
Mama, repining her
still blue
-black
hair, snagging loops
of oiled
strands
from either side
of her
face
to camouflage her
bruised eyes,
giving
her glasses of
aguardiente to
kill
that which cannot
be killed.
Once,
he wondered if
she’d been
formed
from molten gold.
Touched, she
bore
what can never
be killed.
Outside—
perhaps beyond the
scarlet mountain—
perhaps
just beyond the
other side
of
that dirty window—
a bark
then
a prolonged howling
shriveling the
coward
‘s lungs. She
bore what
cannot
be killed: the
oversized heart
of
her dance: Pain.
Poetry. Blood.
You.
You. Blood. Poetry.
Pain. Her
Dance.
