El Molcajete del Diablo

El Molcajete del Diablo

By Leonard Adame

The sky is at its most ominous

in the desert–it is the repository of snake-eyed

glints, a place where molcajete stone is born

distance doesn’t exist there

nor does it in the blackest

sector of the sky: things just appear,

flare like anemones and then, and no

one knows how long it takes,

they disappear–

like the light in the woman’s eyes

in whom direction is now a drowning prayer,

like the warmth now cooling in her womb,

like the wish to eat cilantro and cebollas

and serranos again straight out of a molcajete,

to feel them on her tongue, feel the serranos

commanding the others to merge into

a little universe of their own

this woman who left comfort and comales,

sarapes and fires as small as babies,

who left a mother now feeling the desert

wind in her bones again, a father knowing

that men are at least as cruel

as the astral specters waiting

to do what they wish

with his daughter–yes,

she left these things because, like

God’s processes, staying

or leaving may mean the same

as wandering the black desert

or waking to an interstate

flooded with cars, each swollen,

ironically, with a driver’s failing career–

she walks on: she could be her baby

in its own darkness and knowing nothing

about how the quiet universe

waits for her, for the right time

to let another black outcome flower


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