"The Road Down"
The shop owner paints The Day of the Dead
in miniature. Small cut-outs of Kahlo's head
float on strips of wood. A skeleton pulls
a chair up to the bar, his eyes glittering
rubies. He talks too much, prattles on
about the Ladinos, the ladies who work
on his petite theaters. There is something
condescending in his gringo skin.
The way he knows all the rituals —-
like Santa Elena de la Cruz who takes nails
from the Cross, pins her lover's heart
to make him loyal. There is a milagro —-
a Mexican religious charm depicts
a heart with a dagger in it.
"Where do you think Cupid came from?"
Twelve hours later I'm going south
on a damned bus to Zacatecas through desert
and dearth. There is trash trapped
in the ditches. Nothing changes here. The bus
slows for construction. Just enough time
to see a man emerge from the market. He looks
at me through the window, eyes rotted
from too many Coronas. I think of Christ,
how he called my cell but never left
a message. Hung himself above my bed
at The Inn of the Nuns in room 26.
His breath seeped out of the rusted
pipes. He knows his shape was sculpted
from a six-pointed star. "Listen, God --
Santa Elena has taken a nail from your Cross
and used it to pin her lovers. Why do they
always leave me?" I still cry for that bastard.
The bus speeds up again. Christ joins the burros
ahead, never looks back.
© 2005 Emusing (Lois P. Jones)
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