By: Aaron Endré
Stone blockades crash into earth, twirling and dipping
fairytales of people’s lives and hugging gelatinous fog.
It ain’t so bad, miss. Died real good. Does anyone die good? Merengue.
Black cat tears hit the ground running. Cha-Cha. Who got the money, anyway?
Wander the dingy catacombs of her heart made of skulls. Mambo.
Was there even enough to perform an autopsy? When a plane crashes
don’t we feel the ground shrug it off? Laying white buds down, gulping fermented
buds down. Tango. Shy away. Yes, she does look very life-like.
Tomorrow making tortillas she’ll wonder if she was ever there
at all. Tonight, Día de los Muertos, in spiderweb veil, she fandagoes.
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