Trying To Ignore La Llorona

Her eyes which used to be angels to look at
are now bloodshot holes,
only her sunglasses hide the facts.

Her once beautiful smile
is now a beak to speak,
her once luscious hips

pop a potpourri of noise
only outdone by her screams of pain.
Her perky breasts sag southpaw.

The creek, the trees, the meadows
brandish their weapons
and walk through stone.

Her Cinderella outfit lies tattered,
her barefoot couplets in the night
rhyme with the rain.

Lock the doors, pull down the shades,
turn up the television,
let’s pretend to be white tonight.



Ah, my Hispanic-Americans,
no poetry after Apocalypto