Gila by Rigoberto González It's no curse dragging my belly across the steaming sand all day. I'm as thick as a callus that has shorn off its leg.
If you find me I can explain the trail made by a single limb.
I am not a ghost. Do not be afraid.
Though there are ghosts here- they strip down to wind or slump against rock to evaporate.
Sometimes I crawl beneath the shedding, backing up into the flesh pit for shade. Praise the final moisture of the mouth, its crown of teeth that sparkles with silver or gold.
I make a throne of the body until it begins to decay.
And then I'll toss the frock- death by hunger, death by heat- off the pimples of my skin.
Don't you dare come into my kingdom, peasant, without paying respect on your knees!
What generous act did I commit in my previous life, that I should be rewarded with this paradise:
a garden in which every tree that takes root here drops its fruit eye-level to me. |
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This is the first publication of "Gila," copyright © 2012 by Rigoberto González. Used with the permission of the author. |
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