DE LA SIRENA
For long I was left drowning
(draped in maroon and jade seaweed)
until water was no longer
deadly to me,
and I could swallow, breathe it
as though the elements were part of me.
Strange how the body surrenders
what it does not use,
makes room for necessity.
So pale was I, like the underbelly
of great mariana,
black pearls for iris.
I remembered only part of humanity,
how stiff it was to move,
how sharp, unyielding and dry
earthly things could be.
But it was those faces above,
the sunward sailors,
that I struggled to keep away from.
Even with their far-reaching nets
and large iron hooks
seeking to spear me
I could not keep away from my fascination,
these bound men
so addicted to sky and sun.
VIRGIN OF THE APOCALYPSE
asylum. I had wandered the ghettos
in search of the savior.
held out my arms
in the alleys of syringes.
asylum was never my place.
the world to you,
getting high,
the hundreds of bodies
buried in snow on Everest.
The world to them- getting high.
I am giving into the chaos,
but how I cannot make any heart believe
what I am, what I've been,
where I've crawled
to pull the worms from under their bodies.
They push me away.
I am a superstition, a curse, a thing too pure
to be real.
I remember as a girl how cherished I was.
Faces glowed around me.
My path was marked with grace and beauty.
I knew what I would do, and when.
Fear was not an option.
I remember as a girl the heart seemed to matter,
it seemed to take fire,
burn with truth,
blister with desire.
Never did I have the answer.
But my son, the savior,
My beloved, the moon
is my symbol of 9 months,
a life full and bright
and expected to shed light all over earth.
There it hangs every month,
my reminder, my reason, my reliquary.
For what do you need of bones now,
Structure and skin are human things.
What do you need of earthly things?
But that you cannot give into chaos,
that you pity the bodies buried in snow,
the suffering of here and now.
Never did I have the answer.
Now they see me in the bloom of bombs,
Eternal virgin able to speak holy things
and be heard, find answers.
Now they seek me, utter my name
in dire moments,
reach for the hem of my robe
to be covered with benevolence.
But asylum was never my place.
Does it matter that I am tired
of eternity's filth.
White snow by a black river,
an infant's soft bones,
all things pure becoming narrow and rare.
Virgin of the Apocalypse.
I was taught there were no dead ends.
MARY
How I had not been whole
Or sober my whole life
Before you.
I rubbed Rose oil into
Your temples,
Trying to turn the dark hours
Into a garden
But you saw an ossuary.
Deep blue aria
Against an umber sky.
These were my passages,
And this was my music.