By Alejandro Villa Vasquez
Her eyes creaked open
heavy with fever.
To the place of phantasms.
To the spirited world that never was,
never, never, found anywhere.
To the world, she leaves that which
To bed, she said.
But that woman left out the window
floating like the first breath of sleep.
Now the saint drifts
rowing toward a whitening uncertainity.
It’s not a crook in
the oven, it is the
free form from war and womanhood.
In the gas coffin, in the cemetery of green stones and pastel grasses, the
saint is swept off,
To that someplace or other, possible cure
or possible nothing.
The sun already peaking, the only witness.
A milky corpse of buttered bread.
Children squirm in sleep, the cord severing between them.
To the woman: lives away from your parting
in the breaking light
the tired mourning.