Leave the machete in the manchineel.
break the ox’s neck. it’s approaching.
body of water turned thunder
farmland twisted into graves
our parents are not returning
the horse’s corpse was found.
we write upon a moth’s wing
after the manchineel collapses
leaving its marks through all
and the sap bleeds like rivers
flooding into schools, shops,
the gardens, the churchyards:
you can’t stand under the air
where your memories stood
you can’t stand in that body
and wear it only during rain
what do you know of death
if you’ve never tasted iron
bars twisted into your soil
while your limbs are gone
reaping the harvests of a skull
trying to find our lost parents
the horse’s corpse has poison
the machete was unsharpened
and abuela warned us, told us
not to go anywhere near them
never look during a hurricane
because water will betray you.
do you believe that it owes us?
written upon what constitution?
who told you to leave with me?
does this storm taste like time?
my throat is filling with shards
that are migrating to my lips:
what language will save me?
what time is it in Purgatory?
our streets are now orphans
we’re the parents of silence
I wear a necklace of bones
and pray to the fallen trees
may our loved parents rest
if they do not return today
may all our memories rest
together within this storm
—bring me the machete.
I regret having come outside.
nothing was waiting for us.
The horse is no longer alone.
