Tonight I dared to crawl beneath the sheets to be nailed down around me, waiting for my lover, she who enters without knocking, she who will unstitch my every seam along my thigh, my side, my armpit. She who carves a heart out of the heart and drops it down her throat. Sweet surrender this slow death in sleep as I dream the love-making is autopsy. How else will I be hers completely? Be her treasure box I said: a trove of pearls and stones, the ding of coins cascading through her fingers. The bird over her shoulder not a parrot, but an owl to be my mirror when I close my eyes and shape a moon-white bowl out of my face where she can wash the hooks of her caress.
from "Apocalipsixtlán" [12. A Second Crack in the Earth]
The pond of bones begins to rattle. Even Mother’s
throne collapses, her body disassembles. The ground
turns to quicksand as it trembles and swallows
every socket, every thorn, every pebble. In a single
gulp the bed beneath the Smaller Ones swirls down
a funnel. The earth has groaned like this before.
We know what to expect though it doesn’t help
us guess which plate will lift its crust and which
will crumble. The dust is blinding. It separates us
as we scramble. Unknowingly, some of us run
right into the opening and plummet. We hear
no screams. We hear no cough though we see us
spitting ink—the gas unleashed has cooked our
lungs. Slowly the collective gathers in the shadow
of the clouds. We must guide our shattered spirits
to a shelter before the mists release their acid.
In our ears the ringing doesn’t stop. It will take
a week and some of us will get the sickness—that
rabid urge to kill and tear apart what’s whole.
We fear no second crack. We fear another purge.
We wrap our arms around our bodies, swaying back
and forth—we’re motherless cradles, candle stubs
whose flames have melted down to callus. We are
silent but for the piercing shrill inside our heads.
Cocooned in misery, we might have missed this
spark of light entirely, but there it is, lifting heavy
chins from chests: a firefly—an actual firefly,
beautiful bug from our fantasy game, a reality
here among the detritus of the world, rising from
its dregs, a flicker, a flash, a wink of vital breath.
We try to catch the little star but it eludes our grasp.
We let it be, it comes to rest upon a knee. Dare we
ask if this means the planet now spins in opposite
direction? Does it begin to mend its ruptures, unclog
its river paths? The firefly fades but its ghost remains.
No more dreams, no more questions. Sleep, tiny hope,
we do not know what threats or sorrows we’ll
encounter next. Tomorrow is a story for those who
make it through the present chronicle—uncertainty,
scarcity—we the ephemeral have inherited this earth.