Guerillera
We cut them down at daybreak at the head of a dry wash with their dogs & their rifles asleep in the thorn scrub, soon to flower
as I remember it growing up: the sudden reds & purples against the ground, the clouds of bees
& I close my eyes for a heart- beat or two– but not, I assure you, from any faint-heartedness. It’s only men who tremble when their guns go off.
I could tell you about the girl I used to be: quiet, solemn in the face of the world’s inevitable cruelties. Helping my uncle at slaughtering time
I loved the way he made his blade shimmy right through the toughest joints so fast they hardly moved– one moment a carcass complete with bone & gristle, the next an exclusive disjunction. Even now
I can hear him singing as he feeds the low fire, scraps of fat simmering for soap: One knee for Doña Sebastiana, both knees for God alone. It’s a dull knife that cuts the hand. Keep your heart still & your shoulder to the sky.
An old poem, reprinted in honor of International Women’s Day. Doña Sebastiana: In Mexican folk religion, personification of Death as a female saint. See photo here.