WEBVTT

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This is somewhat of a
poem of a different tone,

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a difficult subject,
really, to deal with.

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It's about the Blessed Virgin.

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Some nights we see you looking
over the forest, a ship

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hoarding the sky, your
four horns pointing us.

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Oh, Maria, here we sit in
wrecked forests, toes cracked,

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and our dead sheep lying around.

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By the light of your breasts,
stare at our white hands

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in disbelief, tinged green.

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Hibiscus and love
notes in our boots.

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Is that basket you
hold, like ours,

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filled with chloroformed
dogs, with steaming apples,

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handcuffs, sly crocodiles?

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And that rivulet
eating your marble egg,

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the same that eats ours.

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Oh, Maria, master of the
heavens, speak to us.

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Maria, fire your guns, give
us at least the dead flesh

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of your palms.

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Sometimes one cheek
seems to slide,

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your haunches shift,
lizards flash in your eyes,

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trees rustle, and the acid of
gunpowder scrapes our knees.

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In your windless see you
topple half over, like a boy.

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Still smiling, leer
toward us a wooden clown.

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And sometimes wake seeing you
already gone, toward the hills.

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Already facing the
sea, a hole blown

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in the back of your skull.

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