In these indigo mountains,
witches gather by the liquor store
and its flickering neon
to weave blankets from found hair.
You can hear their chants rise up to the universe or
some other old god
that was here before the conquistadores
and their leather-bound bibles.
In this village,
the houses are made of biscochitos and cactus candy,
toil and trouble is typical;
you mix potions with dry rinds, sticky sage and
Down these dirt roads
the windows are full of dead and bloody kings;
women turn into sleek black horses
or bathe in powdered bone and glittering methylamine,
and soar up the chimney as tecolotes on their cottony wings.
Now the only light
spilling on the red earth is the bonfires in the woods
where brujas dance with their red willow wands,
and in watching them we try to set ourselves
apart from the darkness.
First published 2014 by Conceptions Southwest