When The Distant Whistle Drops Daggers

Tonight, I wait on the westside
of the railroad track, on a strip of sand that stays cool even under the Tejano Sun. Tonight, when Barbas de Oro puts on his sandals and races across the parched earth, when the first star blinks into existence and heaven unfurls its ancient drama, I will wait. Tonight, when La Llorona haunts the children of the lake, when her wails shatter the moon into a million sacrificial canoes, I will eat with her, I will dance with her, I will kiss her dark nipples and drink her bitter milk. Tonight, when the distant whistle at Station #7 drops daggers from the stars -- I will wait for her. I will wait with ofrendas -- flowers and candles, pan and chocolate, tequila, and el acordeón. Underneath the Yutu Tata with a prayer, I will wait -- my whithered hands outstretched, blooming sorrow along the edges, blossoming a flower of grief.