Nest

Twice, we built a nest in my cell-rich womb.
In one, the blood poured out in the boneyard.

We lived in Mexico. There were tiny candy skulls
black hollows of eyes, a cemetery of wire cribs

and cries of mothers in black lace mantillas.
The second nest was Bach, passion, fugues

made for the salvation of dreams. When I moved,
it went with me. There was this power

beyond my soul, within. What did I know
about bringing life or milk—something inside one.

I was a carrier, delivering. A carrier, caravan.
I was wet on the inside of my skin

with new skin. Vernix. Inside my body
was hair, another’s ears. I listened to our fluids

and the beating of this extending heart.

Shepherdess of the Atlas Mountains

Wind loosens scarves
from their heads as girls scale quartz and granite,
navigate flocks, sleep under constellations
with their ewes and ram, whose wool will be sheared,
spun, dyed indigo and saffron.
Children roll pastry dotted with pistachio and honey,
collect mint for tea. Husbands slow-cook tagine
of preserved lemon, apricot, dates, and cumin.
When men return to the mountain to slaughter lambs,
women tighten head coverings
under their necks again.

Day of the Dead

If you want to live in Mexico
you must understand
the hunger of the dead.
See them eat their life
in you, taste their bitter,
their butter, honey, fish
caught early morning.
Cleaned and smoked.
Bones sucked.

You must shop at the mercado.
Fill your bolsas with mango,
avocado, beans, and tortillas.
Prepare their most desired
meals. Eat what you can.
Leave the rest for them.

Place this favored food on graves.
Return at dark, keep vigil. Light
many red votive candles.
Paint your face like a skull.
Be dead, dancing.