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Like the war witch, Medea, my love killed
her sons to prove a point. My weeping ghost,
my queer Llorona. I kissed her. That thrilled
me; to have her pause in her wail, her braid
of cold hair undone, the tip of her tongue
between my lips. I washed her feet and combed
her hair. I gave her a dress from a young
mother I knew. Soon, hand in hand, we roamed
the banks of her river. All you have heard
about Llorona is, in truth, gossip.
We slept in a pear orchard and savored
our short love. The sort that feels like worship.
Once I was told the reasons, I admit,
for her deeds, but right now I forget it.

Note:

La Llorona (The Weeping Woman) is Central and South American legend of an indigenous mother who drowns her children in a river and then was forced to spend all eternity searching for them, crying as she wanders, lost the canyons and banks of rivers.