Always Messing with them Boys
Jessica Helen Lopez           BACK      NEXT

These the Women
(or the Bruja Lament)

One little witch held love in a black crystal
she renounced all things smooth
pockets heavy with jaded bits of glass
a toilet bowl full of bile
hers was the story of matrimony

One little witch held love like light
a prism igniting in the combustible air of hope
she sailed a boat made of glass and faith
her smile like a child and roaring vivid
hers was the story of watercolor and morning

One little witch had eyes of a fox
cautious slivered stares and jerky twitch of neck
she fled like a doe
scattered quick like dead leaves in the wind
hers was the story of mistrust and belt buckle

One little witch hurled like a hurricane of fury
the wrath of furious fist and carnage
she left bloated bodies in her wake
ripped trees from root
left sailboats gutted on beach
hers was the story of tragic comedy and revenge

One little witch fused like hermaphrodite
metal melting and sex organ amalgamated
her mouth an open vacuum and vortex of famine
her mouth too much for the everyday man
hers was the story of hunger and wantonness

One little witch pushed her insides out
thighs streaked of blood like shooting star
the warm ulcer of womb suckled
chapped breast and chafe of porcelain-thin skin
her milk rose to a slow boil of cumbersome love
hers was the story of duplicity and motherhood

All had died a multitude of deaths
all were orchids bloody bruised and sweet like plums
all were vain and brilliant in their beauty
all had stroked the forehead of guilt
all held close incantations of unmet expectation
all acquiesced under burdensome boughs
heavy with blue snow
thick with all things meaty

All had tumbled
only to again erect

Again
the all of them
stewed in the sugary sweat
of open pore
boiled blood
black as tar
the chunk of placenta

Feathered
ancient
lonely in their godliness

The umbilical knows
no other way

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