^{translated by Samantha Schnee}

They were so called because they wore god’s mask, and be-
cause their faces and hearts were resolute as stone. For days,
years, they walked with jade beneath their tongues, seeking
home. They worked the land and bejeweled their bodies. Not
as a sign of vanity, but because they tended the amaranth in
their yearning for fire. Xiuhtecuhtli was their god; xiuhtlatoa
their language, meaning “words of fire”—that which ignites
the heart. They were careful not to use xaltlatoa, “words of
sand”, fleeting, vague and un-understandable. At night
they accompanied the Sun on his descent. They were jade,
translucent, and purified the underworld, deciphering dest-
iny. Their essence dwelt in the Afterlife. Their petals arose in
song. They adorned their Home with hymns and flowers and
filled their desire with vision, fine chalice of the sagacious
seed. The upper half of their bodies naked; Their breasts
were buds of omexóchitl and their verdant dreams the
sprigs of a birch. From their legs blossomed the pure wh-
ite feathers of the quetzal. Coatlicue, the goddess mother,
gave birth to the Sun and Moon. With a sword of fire, the
Sun beheaded the Moon and tossed her body down
the steps, shattering it in a thousand pieces, Coyolxauhqui
covered head to toe in shining rattles of vipers. She fell
and entered darkness. And so it was recorded on the
tree of ámatl: Light and shadow will not last. So says
the history of woman: she sought to recreate what
was within her to rewrite the Book:
The song will be reborn
in each body in such a way that we learn
to redefine what is ours, as our daughters will,
too, and our daughters’ daughters, and their
daughters’ daughters will know that their
bodies are light on Earth, heat of the sun with
its tona, energy, fecundity, song that dances
along the perimeter of stars. And so, they watch
over us from the firmament at dusk and dawn
as the sun is born and dies. These goddess
-es of water were destined to be masters
of their own desire, guides of their own
light. We must engrave on our hearts:
The place where goddesses are born.

sobre quiénes eran estas diosas

Las llamaban así por ser portadoras de la máscara del dios, y
por tener un rostro propio y un corazón firme como la
piedra. Soles, años caminaron con el jade bajo su lengua en
pos de la Casa. Labraron la tierra y adornaron sus cuerpos
con joyeles de oro, no como símbolo de vanidad, sino por
ser cuidadoras del amaranto en su anhelo de flama. Xiuh-
tecuhtli era su dios; xiuhtlatoa, su lengua, lo cual quiere
decir «palabra de fuego», esa que enciende el corazón. El-
las cuidaban de no usar la xaltlatoa,  «palabra de arena»,
que escurridiza huye sin dejarse aprehender. Por las no-
ches acompañaban en su descenso al Sol. Ellas eran el
jade y eran la transparencia, purificaban el inframundo
y descifraban el sino. En el Más Allá moraba su funda-
mento. Sus pétalos en cantos se alzaban. Con himnos y
flores ornaban su Casa y su deseo llenaban de visión, fino
cáliz de fulgor y semilla. Llevaban la mitad de su cuerpo sin
cubrir; eran brotes de omexóchitl sus senos y su sueño, verde
yema de tepozán. Y de sus piernas florecían las blanqu-
ísimas plumas de quetzal. Así fue que Coatlicue, diosa
madre, dio a luz al Sol y a la Luna. Con su espada de fuego,
él decapitó a la Luna, y por la escalinata su cuerpo rodó, y se
fragmentó en mil pedazos. Coyolxauhqui yacía toda re-
cubierta de radiantes cascabeles de sierpe. Al caer,
entró en la oscuridad. Y por ello ha quedado
grabado en el árbol del «ámatl»: Transitoria será
la luz y su sombra. Dice así la historia de la mujer:
buscó rehacer su interioridad pra reescribir el Libro:
El canto renacerá en cada cuerpo de forma que
aprendamos a resignificar el propio, y así nuestras hijas,
y las hijas de nuestras hijas, y las hijas de sus hijas,
sabrán que su cuerpo es luz en Tierra, calor de Sol
con su tona, energía, fecundación, canto que danza
en derredor de las estrellas. Es así que nos vigil-
an desde el firmamento cada mañana y cada
noche, al nacer y al caer el Sol. Las diosas del
agua tenían como propio ser dueñas
de su deseo, guías de su luz. Y así lo
habremos de inscribir en nuestros
corazones:
Lugar donde nacen las diosas.

eenie meenie minie moe
catch a voter by her toe
if she hollers then you know
got yourself a real jane crow

* * *

one vote is an opinion
with a quiet legal force ::
a barely audible beep
in the local traffic, & just
a plashless drop of mercury
in the national thermometer.
but a collectivity of votes
/a flock of votes, a pride of votes,
a murder of votes/ can really
make some noise.

* * *

one vote begets another
if you make a habit of it.
my mother started taking me
to the polls with her when i
was seven :: small, thrilled
to step in the booth, pull
the drab curtain hush-shut
behind us, & flip the levers
beside each name she pointed
to, the Xs clicking into view.
there, she called the shots.

* * *

rich gal, poor gal
hired girl, thief
teacher, journalist
vote your grief

* * *

one vote’s as good as another
:: still, in 1913, illinois’s gentle
suffragists, hearing southern
women would resent spotting
mrs. ida b. wells-barnett amidst
whites marchers, gently kicked
their sister to the curb. but when
the march kicked off, ida got
right into formation, as planned.
the tribune’s photo showed
her present & accounted for.

* * *

one vote can be hard to keep
an eye on :: but several /a
colony of votes/ can’t scuttle
away unnoticed so easily. my
mother, veteran registrar for
our majority black election
district, once found—after
much searching—two bags
of ballots /a litter of votes/
stuffed in a janitorial closet.

* * *

one-mississippi
two-mississippis

* * *

one vote was all fannie lou
hamer wanted. in 1962, when
her constitutional right was
over forty years old, she tried
to register. all she got for her
trouble was literacy tested, poll
taxed, fired, evicted, & shot
at. a year of grassroots activism
nearly planted her mississippi
freedom democratic party
in the national convention.

* * *

one vote per eligible voter
was all stacey abrams needed.
she nearly won the georgia
governor’s race in 2018 :: lost by
50,000 /an unkindness of votes/
to the man whose job was purg
maintaining the voter rolls.
days later, she rolled out plans
for getting voters a fair fight.
it’s been two years—& counting.

I had come to the house, in a cave of trees,
Facing a sheer sky.
Everything moved,—a bell hung ready to strike,
Sun and reflection wheeled by.

When the bare eyes were before me
And the hissing hair,
Held up at a window, seen through a door.
The stiff bald eyes, the serpents on the forehead
Formed in the air.

This is a dead scene forever now.
Nothing will ever stir.
The end will never brighten it more than this,
Nor the rain blur.

The water will always fall, and will not fall,
And the tipped bell make no sound.
The grass will always be growing for hay
Deep on the ground.

And I shall stand here like a shadow
Under the great balanced day,
My eyes on the yellow dust, that was lifting in the wind,
And does not drift away.