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.