La Paloma Negra Belongs To The Mexican

“The Cathedral of The Redeemer --

yeah,

right,

and this is the celestial ceiling?”

El Viejo sells la calaca:

serape over its shoulder,

giant black sombrero on its skull,

ivory fingers strum a red guitar.

“Si,” he says,

“y la paloma negra

-- the black dove

-- belongs to the Mexican,

as does la guitarra,

el camaron,

mescal,

la cascabel.”

El Viejo offers muertos

and strums a corrido.

His wife accompanies with castanets.

“Aqui no hay tristeza,” they sing.

Here, there is no sorrow.

Their voices harmonic and ancient --

without polish, and the torture

of perfect pitch.

He thumps his chest,

throws back his head and howls.

His coyote-yell shreds my heart;

and the cold, culpable luna appears

over the vaulted sky,

but

already the moon wanes.

You

poor

old

son

of

a

bitch.

Beyond your curving shoulder,

my father’s church.

I hear the train whistle

on its way to Jerusalem.

Even now, his words wilt like morning glories.

I can’t recall the prayers,

or

the sermons.

I can’t recall the lyrics

of the gospel

-- the one he wrote

-- so I can sing,

sing

in this pinché valley.

Old man,

beyond your vision my mother dances

in fields of zenpasuchitl,

but the smell of onion and garlic

overwhelms the fragrance.

Must be the blessings,

the grace of a mother;

or

of a God in whose footsteps

she walked,

or

simply the longing

of a feathered heart.

“You know,” he begins,

“El Coyote y La Llorona

belong to the Mexican.”

“Stop that shit,” I demand,

"basta!”

And

for a second,

silence.

“And the cock,

Old Man,

does he belong to the Mexican too --”