Brujeria
I don't know what fetch
was living in his hair
but there was always something
when it blew back in the hot breath
of the redtangled hills; new-hatched snakes perhaps
curling from the small broken shells of his words,
tendrilous avatars in those nights that hid
the color of blood so well;
or soft rain-threads each sweet as a sugarfall
on my open face as we made love,
for the medicine painting, not la brujeria,
skintalking the Healing Way.
Whatever it was, it
wasn't the mild dog in his eyes,
not fur, not a tail-wag.
It was syllogistic, sensate, restless;
hungry as a hopping flea.
whose tiny itch is only felt later.
Perhaps it even had Buddha nature,
or something else
borrowed from Kali.
It was one of those things about him
that taught me to look away.
I saw only its soft brown habitat
as I slipped my fingers through
felt its satin dance
against my touch
but what lived there never left
like all the other things I tried to disappear.
I could feel them breathing
though they never made a sound
not even now when
they ghost him back to my dreams.
August 2023
posted for Odd Little Things
Art nouveau lithograph poster 1903 ©Alphonse Mucha Public Domain
Man with Long Hair, ©Odd Nedrum Fair Use
