Much like Samhain, the Celtic feast day that lies forgotten at the roots of America's Halloween, Dias de los Muertos are two days when the veils between the worlds of the living and the dead thin to the point of allowing communion with dead loved ones. Calacas and catrionas, the skeleton figures that are dressed up and posed, often in zany situations called calaveras, are a way of paying respect to Death without fearing or giving Death undue power over the living.
So, in honor of Dias de los Muertos, today and tomorrow, here are two very different poems.
CALACA
COMEDY CENTRAL
In
this time of marigolds and mariposas,
calacas,
calaveras, and candles everywhere,
in
this time when the veil between the worlds,
living
and dead, is stretched thinnest,
watch
the souls streaming through the tears,
trailing
that unnatural chill of Lord Death’s land.
Here
he comes himself, skeleton jester,
with
crown and scepter to beg
for
the taste of mescal y pan muerto.
Dress
him up for photos,
Lord
Death just bares his teeth
in
an everlasting grin and dances,
loose-limbed
and clacking, bone on bone,
holding
out his sombrero at the end
as
he mimics a hacendado’s formal bow.
Who
knew he was such a comedian?
All
our legends tell a different story,
scary
and grim, not this grinning,
fingerbone-snapping
prankster.
Who
knew he could be so funny,
prancing
around in silly costumes,
telling
knock, knock jokes,
juggling
sugar skulls,
striking
ridiculous poses?
Be
generous to that hat he passes
when
his performance is finished.
No
small change or paper bills.
This
bony clown performs for one pay only,
a
taste of what we take for granted
every
day, a mouthful of mole,
a
kiss, a look at the sunlight,
a
breath of air like sweet wine,
one
heartbeat rubbing up against another.
Once
a year,
he
comes to remind us
that
life is a slapstick farce,
and
his skeletal leer
is
the ultimate punchline.
Published
in Present Magazine
This second poem arose from a challenge given to me by a fellow member of The Latino Writers Collective--to write a passionate love poem for Dias de los Muertos.
OFRENDA
This is the altar
I’m building
to my calaverada,
that madcap dance
of death
my heart tangoed
with you.
Boxes stacked and
covered with fabric
to make a place of
power
to draw you back to
me.
A calavera of great
artistry
will stand in for
you, mimicking life
almost as well as
you mimicked love.
I will bake you pan
de muerto and rosquete,
still trying to
please you,
buy finest bourbon,
your favorite,
no mezcal or
tequila for you,
place it next to
the water, salt, and bread.
Mustn’t forget
the mirror and comb
so you can check
your hair
of which you were
always so vain.
I will slice my
fingers cutting
papel picado skulls
and hearts,
yellow, orange,
pink and white,
and purple for
pain,
to decorate the
velvet of the altar.
I adorn the ofrenda
and myself
with bright,
guilt-swallowing marigolds,
chaining them
through my hair,
string their petals
across the ground
to lead you back.
Let me light the copal
and inhale the
sweet smoke,
trying to attract
you even now,
drawing you to me.
Mustn’t cry, though.
“The path back to
the living world
must not be made
slippery by tears.”
It will all be to
no avail.
I can’t fool you
or anyone
into thinking I
have finally found acceptance.
It’s all too
clear I would wrestle
the Lady of the
Dead herself
for possession, to
wrench you
from peaceful rest
in Mictlan
and back into the
tempest
that was us.
Published
in Present Magazine
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