sit in the ether
among the bones and sawdust
piecing the skulls together with sugar
and painter's tape
believing in the solitude of La Llorona
down the hall
awash with the festoons
f the grave
yellow and green and red
and bones
Frida beckons me, “Why do you hate me, Miguel!?”
she cries soft and mocking
teasing
“...Come, fix my hands, mi hijo...”
I connect the bones, the frame
a work of fingers appearing, flexing
she drags the tip of her pointer
down
my nose
like a blade
and kisses me quietly
“Bueno,” she says
among the army of marching skulls
and decay
