BRUJA, WITCHES IN MEXICO
That
wicked wicked
white white
sun sun
sets on the western
ocean of the molten
metal sky over Mexico.
The girl with the wooden comb
brushes her long platinum hair,
naked in the window of the hut
while broad-shouldered fishermen
walk the narrow path to her
and are slapped in the face,
thrown out the door.
In the green room of hanging things
a parrot stares with one dead eye
at the mutation crouched there,
a tiny hunchbacked daughter
sucking air through her teeth.
Well, well, what’s so wicked
as moving through the jungle.
Death, the weaver
spinning and spinning
a thread of red water
from her terrible mouth.
In the jungle, the tinsel jungle,
a wicked lady, an old fat lady
has a hunchbacked daughter
caught on the vision of beauty.
(The white girl with white hair
who lives in the old, white hut.)
Well, well, what’s so wicked
as the wanting and the ugliness.
Death, the weaver
spinning and spinning
a thread of red water
from her terrible mouth.
The wicked lady, the old fat lady
wears a necklace of hummingbirds,
and lives in a ramshackle hut
with stuffed armadillos,
is glittering and strange.
The old fat lady is plotting;
she sends her daughter every night
to the white girl’s white hut,
with magic and dreaming eyes.
A donde va?
A donde va, guava?
But the white girl ignores her
and remains indestructibly
beautiful.
So the daughter cries
and the old lady plots
and the fishermen walk
decimated down the pathway.
Well, well, what’s so wicked
as the wanting and the unreceiving.
Death, the weaver
spinning and spinning
a thread of red water
from her terrible mouth.
The creepers are trembling.
The snakes are moving slow.
The parrot shuts its one
dead eye.
Well, well, what’s so wicked
as the thing in the white hut.
The little hunchbacked daughter,
her terrible mouth leaking blood,
is hanging from a corded rope.
She’s caught on the vision of beauty.
She’s spinning at the edge of the world.