The Birth of Tlazoltéotl

 

 

i.

 

Feed the dog

tortillas con leche

 

tongue laps cream
and corn

 

“Where we come from,”

my grandmother whispers
through teeth and bullet,
“we worship a filth goddess.”

 

ii.

 

Lago de Camécuaro

trees resting on the uprooted

backs of grandparents;

umbilical cord

 

A basin:

dirty water

sugar

floating in a tire

(tar)

big enough to fit

the hind leg of a semi

 

I am in a pink bathing suit

real cool

looking at a pebble-

sized puddle

in my belly button:

the color green

color blue

tiny speckled

mud

 

I am amazed

glowing honey

 

 

I reflect on my birth
from the dirt:

 

robin’s egg womb

cocoa bean heirloom

maiz turntable cumbia

 

iii.

 

Across the water

a pack of older boys

 

cartel

cootie-catcher

 

their bodies are mysteries

and candy

I am maybe eight years old

 

I overhear them

in a language I am not fluent in:

pajarita roja

morenita Rosa

 

I dog-ear these croonings

for when their lullabies

become cat-calls

 

and my legs in red heels

have the power to melt
an iron will

 

reprieve in holy water

 

iv.

 

Quinceañera witch

black pearl dama

I renounce my court of honor

to let the chambelan

slip off my garter

 

v.

 

The first time a boy cracked

 a confetti egg over my hair

I danced covered in lilac

 

I became dizzy

by the scents and smells

of El Barrio’s spinning scorn--

 

rat grease in the holy water bowl

horchata tan dulce

smiles fixed with golden teeth

worth more than jawbone

 

this will always be the place

where I was born

the prophetess of misdeeds

 

invoked Coatlicue

Maria Felix wannabe

pinche chingona.

 

vi.

 

Cut to ‘85

my mother is seventeen

practicing on an older man

she doesn’t plan on marrying

 

She likes the way the backseat

of his car smells like leather

 

an emerald nail traces

the delicate stiches

of her blouse

says, “You were made

from my warm spit.”

 

A sacred story

on the creation of love

 

vii.

 

It was the Christmas of my ninth year
my grandmother shot a gun

into the air arm perfectly diagonal

 

She grabbed the pistol from my uncle’s grip,

said, “Mira pendejo, como yo,”

 

pulled back the lock,

looked each of her granddaughters in the eye

then popped the trigger

 

Like a piñata bursting open

spilling the fingers of men
who would want us and hate
us and take us without permission

 

Ever since then I’ve feared nothing

 

viii.

 

As a little girl she was mischievous,

painted blue by her mother’s

moody dowry.

 

Our heroine felt something inside her stir,

between breast and pelvis;

the tick of love in sin

 

ix.

 

Once back in Tangas,

I bathed in the water basin
in our backyard;

built by hand, brick by brick

 

it was my tomb: altar of aggression

the water went up to my neck
and I’d wade pretending to be one
of the million little bugs
floating in the water

 

When I emerged from my cleansing,

mother yelled at how dirty I was

and made me take a shower
so hot it burned my skin a bright red

 

That night a tree on our block
caught fire and I watched the shadow

of it’s burning branches dance like
a skeleton from my bedroom window
 

x.

 

As I grow older
I find strangers fear my tongue
that is evil
and red.

 

I do not explain myself:

but burn the roof

of their mouth

with the taste of tamarind
and conquest.

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