Remedios
by Asusena Lopez
My mother danced in the devil's
abandoned playground where he tossed
jacks with boulders and twisted cat’s cradles
with tree branches.
The villagers guarded their casas de adobe
by hanging horseshoes over their doorways,
but the tendrils still bear his mark,
and some say they see him under moonlight
tottering rocks over cliffs.
From this dry fertile land
my mother learned the secrets of the mandrake:
always plant a tree under a luna tierna,
and protect it with a red ribbon during an eclipse.
Cola de caballo soothes the intestines and cow
shaped leaves treat diabetes.
Store a bowl of salt under your bed.
As it absorbs nightmares it will stiffen;
discard it when you’ve stopped dreaming.
Coat your tongue in honey
when asking for a favor.
Figs dry warts.
Menstruation piss fades acne scars.
En la víspera de Año Nuevo crack an egg
in a glass of water; read the yolk.
Light a cigarette in your ear when it's sore.
Sweep an egg over your body
to lower a fever.
Always offer flowers or molasses
to the ocean.
But if you want to keep a man, pin
his name to a mouse trap.
Never sleep with a mirror facing you
or your toes pointing towards a window.
Only praise the idols you can feed.
When you catch a shadow in your
peripheral, burn copal.
Dreaming of meat, a wedding, or falling teeth
means someone is going to die.
If they leave before you apologize,
lift the casket and kiss Death’s cold feet.
This poem first appeared in The Northridge Review's Fall 2021 issue.
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