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
Categories:
Recommended
The Neighborhood
Wildlife
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