NaPM April 03 2016

[just mercedes]

Madre Muerte



Delicate night fruit
her feet, light-sensitive.
She rejects worshippers.
She is mother, must eat,
ignores embroidery from
cathedrals abandoned
to despair. Stumbling
with her skirts up
down Calle Dolores,
her skull necklace muttering
through dark rank alleys,
incense smouldering
in chalices, shadowed,
she defines pain and light.
Snuffing black candles,
shaking bone posada,
the scowling goddess
surfaces into full sun
to dance your death
tongue-kissed,
homing in.

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Oh, it didn't come easy. At one point I slammed my fist on the desk and almost spilt me Coke everywhere

But you said 'betwixt' and I love you for that.