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Written by Xiuhcoatl
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May 27, 2006 at 02:34 AM |
Los Encadenadosby Juan Santos
Beneath the desert moon
bare mountains rise
through the dark glass,
their dark shapes velveted in snow,
like icebergs floating past the shoulder
of the road.
The green gauges and dials,
the headlights as they open into silence.
Then the descent into the valley,
the glittering slopes of the cities,
the swerving line
where the white lights
give themselves over into yellow;
that is Mexico.
We would spend our last nights together there,
where the white demons could not follow;
we kept our last vigil;
the touching of our lips; the ending
of our war together in a land of exiles.
You had come alone,
thorns wrapped round your wrists,
your hands wrapped round
the iron bars of necessity;
the journey north, years of absence,
of work without sleep.
And in our bedroom the sacred heart
sculpted in nickel, silver and brass;
the red flag laid upon your altars to Frida;
the glow of the veladoras beside the bed,
the burning virgin.
I found you weeping there,
curled on the floor.
You had left them, in Mexico,
never speaking of your love.
When you were calm
you rose in the soft light
and draped your hair
like a blanket of feathers
across my chest and thighs,
laughing quietly to yourself
before you slept.
And now you have cut it,
giving your answer
neither in English nor Spanish
but in the oldest tongue,
the silent tongue of our wounds.
You are going home.
Los Encadenados Part 2 / Pata de Perro
They tell me you are padding
from here to there,
from this friend to that
like a half grown dog,
with one ear cocked,
the other flopping,
in an angular prancing trot.
There are guerrilla zones,
street vendors, and huaraches to chew.
They say
the army
and agents
of the CIA
have entered
the villages.
They are watching all the roads.
Los Encadenados Part 3 Vigil
Dark virgin
of the realm of longing:
pray for us.
Her dark jewel,
her ring of wood,
her ring of bent nails,
how she opened herself for me.
How she spilled the chalice.
How I prayed for her,
the truth of her glances,
the justice of her lips,
her dark wings.
Take us to the dark womb of feathers
where I will burn on the longest night,
where the snow burns like the leopard’s tongue
and water breaks its heart over the rocks.
She was so quiet.
She said
I love you.
That's why you pierce me. |
Literature 
