By LorenHT
I
Beginning of winter came, disregarding
The City of Sempiternal Spring
Suspended between seasons, in time.
Posadas flamed with cold, a breeze,
premonition of old.
Steel birds, flying men, descending into
Winding stairs. Then the noise, the sound,
The smell. Decay was in the air.
Pulled him out, unscathed by life,
La Catrina caressed his face, Angelus
mortis tallied one more
No Pentecostal fire to light. There is
Only the smell of dead. Or the
Bordering dead.
If you ever came this way
You would find the trees outgrown
The grass and flowers bloomed.
If you found your way into the
Molten valley, you would sit
Wait like a patient cat, out in the sun
Licking its bloody paws. Two letters,
Two numbers of steel tethered
To its hip. There are other places
Which also are life’s end, some
Near the Big Bravo, some near the sea,
Yet others in between.
Now and in Mexico.
If you came this way,
There is hope it’ll change
A fleeting ray, a single dropping
Flake that maybe will melt away.
You are not here to save her, observe
And, when the time comes, pray.
Here the living meet the dead, intersect
In Mexico and nowhere. Now, not forever.
II
Corpse on a side street
Cempasuchil flower out to greet
Protect from Luz y Fer attempts
Into the dark void it tempts
Poisoned water and dead land
Fighting for the weakest strand
Found allies in both rich and poor
Watch him unfolding in grandeur.
Enumerated on it were fifty, tallying
Those where one could die. Late
For work, for school, does not matter
Late, nonetheless, for there is life
to be picked up. The masqueraded take them,
Blood on their hands, on everyone’s minds.
Disposed, not even two feet of honor
On the side of a concrete way, where all
Could find them and see,
Where the message is clear.
Reciprocity: tomorrow no change.
III
Water the land they try, but nothing
Can fertilize a land that has become tainted
With the cries of the innocent and the blood
Of the guilty. To live in fear, forever
Trying, Fleeing, and finally, ignoring.
Six sardines in a car, anonymous tippers,
All dead. Father cries out in pain,
Blames the nation, blames the neighbors,
They all just nod along in blame.
One mother, wife and daughter,
With eighty rain drops in her loving frame,
From both sides.
We are stabbing it from the inside.
There can never be life like this.
IV
Twelve out of fifty from my home
Pools collecting every night,
Defeated, exiled, we’ve become.
A blessing, a curse. I pray this plight
Will end, I can return and not roam
In it lays the choice of life
Consumed by either open fire or strife.
V
Piñatas hanging from the bridge
Small holes on their sides,
Can see the remnants from afar, the smell
Stiffens the air. I breathe.
There the heads rested, their manhood
In their petrified mouths.
Home is gone, dark settled while
Fire burns in hearts fueled with love
In passion, in healthy lands;
There is none left. Here
Fire burns in cheeks of those
That weep, burning
Down the ties. Enemies we’ve become.
History is Mexico. No more.
Ditches from the storm, I hear another
Will this one cleanse the red away. Tainted,
She will remain. Haunt
Now filled with ghosts,
More than sixty thousand roam,
No justice done. All lost
Now what? My home is gone.
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