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Viene la mujer
La Llorona weeps in the night, the darkness wrapped around her like a shawl.
”¡Ai, hijos mios!”
I hear her through the open window, grief braided in the wind. Her hair is long and black. I cannot tell where she ends and the night begins. Angry eyes glint fire, outshine the impassive moon.
”¡Mijo! ¡Mijas!
”¿Donde estan?”
I cannot comfort her. Her desolation is seamless, heir to a thousand generations of loss. She is as remote as onyx. Her eyes close slowly, open again, look away. I leave the window. I go back to bed.
Posted by: Chris Clarke
Note: A database glitch in 2008 ate a bunch of archived comments. Don't be offended if yours isn't here, or confused if the conversation seems disjointed. Thanks!
Beautiful, Chris. It’s good to hear your “voice”. How are you? Still have an old kayak that yearns for the waters of Tomales Bay?
By: By Lisa Thompson on 2004 05 06
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The Neighborhood
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