Coplas/Verses

Nuestras vidas son los ríos	Our lives are the rivers
que van a dar en el mar	that go empty into the sea
que es el morir	which is death

—Jorge Manrique

I want no part of this: the blood
that runs empty into my life.
My flesh so fair against his skin—
I lust only for what is dark.
And finally I am betrayed
by nothing more than continents.
In the beginning continents

divided nothing. Merely blood
formed factions & if betrayed,
the infraction marked a life.
Lately when the evening grows dark,
I finger bones beneath my skin.

Strange—my soft jaw—the folds of skin
weakening a square chin. Continents
I can't escape moving in dark
paths, forking through my rivered blood.
Half-breed that I am, I choose life,
the hours by which I am betrayed.

Ironic, how my father betrayed
his wife for one with darker skin.
Translating the map of our life,
I discover more than continents
were traversed. Some traded blood
for blood, history became dark.

I unearth this: the knot of flesh dark
& sinewed was sold, was betrayed
by an ancestor with thick blood
that ran empty under his skin,
weakness that altered continents.
I don't want this miserable life.

In dreams I make another life;
but it is not so changed. My dark
doll is hospitalized. Continents
reduced to souvenir, orchids betrayed
by Mickey Mouse's salmon skin.
Broken straps chafe ankles to blood.

This life declines to be betrayed.
Skullbone's dark gaps plot beneath skin;
continents transfer in my blood.