Poet's Corner: Dia De Los Muertos, My Love
the sweet amber whiskey you pour on my tomb?
Remember me with persimmons, pomegranates,
ripe amorous figs. Cut through a rare skirt-steak
ancho-rubbed, sealed with oils of poblano and olive.
Paint my skull rich turquoise
like the deepest part of the Colorado River,
flowers of lime zinnia, hot fuchsia, and hibiscus.
Etch the orbital regions in filigree like all those
bad boy tattoos, shadow the hollows
with motorcycle exhaust
and the smoke of all the fires we set.
With your tiny scissors cut silhouettes
in ocean-colored tissue. Scenes of us
baptizing our union in the Pacific, welcoming
our devotion into the world, gasping
for the same oxygen communion
as the night we freed the monarchs
of our spines to La Luna, my hair the final gate
coaxing us upward
annihilating the lonely solitude,
that was the before of us.
Shower me with the husk of papery tomatillos
until I’m sticky as unwrapped fruit,
drape me in maize husk,
steamed with stoked embers.
This is remembrance,
pulsing with seeds of a new generation.
See the saints dancing
in the Aztec-night wind,
opening the floor,
closing what’s left of their eyes,
the final burn in their cheeks
slipping into the void,
seeping into bone.
Listen to the thin branches hitting glass:
they’re tapping their distal ivory fingertips
in hypnotic applause.
Editor’s note: Kierstin Bridger, a winner of Telluride Arts’ Mark Fischer Poetry Prize, is a regular contributor to Telluride Inside… and Out. She is nothing if not arch and, like painter Edward Hopper, a keen observer of our solitude, for better or for worse, always pregnant with possibilities.
Comments are closed.