I could not sleep in such heat and what dream
came was no dream. Santísima Muerte
parted her robes to press her wet blaspheme,
as priests call all cunts, to my lips. Doomsday
tastes like death in heat. “Tu madre,” she said.
“Chinga tu madre.” Once lust couldn’t carve
through this thick air, couldn’t slash through what bled
from these lips. Have faith, you said. See? You starve.
Who has fed you like I do? — The riot
in your heart knows what you want. The chaos
that dreams of dissection loves you, too. Press
that blunt tongue here, in my groove, my crosscut.
Stroke, you woke with that taste; lust born from loss,
born from death, lovesick, lifting up her dress.
NOTES:
As a personification of death and guardian of marginalized people Nuestra Señora de la Santa Muerte (Our Lady of Holy Death) is a folk saint found in Mexico and Mexican-American Catholicism. Chinga tu madre is, of course, one of the few things Santísima Muerte (Most Holy Death) can get away with saying, since death is the mother of us all.
