Where the Tlacantzolli are Reborn

 

I am the last omen you see before the destruction of the empire,

before the white gods on four-legged devils charge to hew you

    

apart. We are grafted from limbs left on the battlefield. Pale hands

clench fearfully around their dark necks. A grimace stitched stiff

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over a child’s chin. A warrior’s chest stressed onto a woman’s

waist. We were given two mouths to scream our destiny. Eight legs

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kick psychotic through the womb. Undead ghosts, we disappear

when you reach between your woman’s bloody thighs to claim us.

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Look at our flesh. Creatures made to chorus and scourge. Of course,

all of you found us hideous, confused by the intimacy of our bodies,

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the way I press my lips to my second head with no shame, the language

we dismember and graft together on our tongues. We were not born

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to be loved but to warn all our fathers: we are the end of your era.

We rise to spill sick from your blood, our bones beat into one.

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​from MERCURY IN REGGAETÓN.