Chicano Poet

Monday, March 03, 2008

Mexican Metamorphosis

We were watching reality television
last night
when Mr. Bones’s rolltop desk,

begin to shudder, sat on its haunches,
rocked back and forth like La Llorona,
then burst into a dozen, wilted roses.

Henry hisself was mesmerized
by the shaking of her thighs
and would not be distracted

even by a naked Paula Abdul on the boob tube,
and even less so as La Llorona pulled
her wet, unconscious children from the creek,

and shook them as hard as she could until,
one by one, they opened their eyes
to cry.


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