La Cueva
Chicago, IL
The beautiful women swing
their hips
like eternal bells. With pink, histrionic mouths
they sing: Who is this
in the mirror? Why won’t you love me? Why won’t you
let me be?
The costumes are small eruptions—
fabrics twisted and
impossibly stitched—
a geisha bride, a cowgirl princess.
In the more unforgiving lights, the synthetic
yellow wigs startle the brown clay
of skin. Briefly, we see
the soft traces
of their shrouded youth,
how skillfully they’ve learned
to wipe the smeared mirrors
inside them.
*
In the teeth
of their gaze,
the men with the factory hands
raise their palms
to the hormone-softened
faces— a love
flimsy as a wet yellow dress.
They will bend
like flowers for them.
*
The winter frost of eyelids
in the darkness: hands
dig for a swelling cock
reaching skyward. The matronly breasts
hang low and exhausted,
though there can’t be children
to suckle them.
The body
is not a hieroglyph,
but a triumph.
*
In the morning, the men will rise
for mass. With their wives,
they will sing
¡El Señor resucitó!
And as they clap their hands aleluya,
the smell,
that singular funk
that springs from the body,
will weep
from their callused palms.