Hernán Cortez re-members Malinche
México Tenochtitlan- August 17, 1521
I met God at her center
and prayed to the opening
of her lower lips. I became
a hermit reading the sacred
etched texts on her flesh
to find a new spelling of
my name at her navel
where I rendered
her in carnelian red
She is the center of the universe,
I do not care what Galileo will preach,
She is the real sun,
gravitating my heart
pulse to my dune’s edge
and swallows me holy
I could not stop the sin-
king, sliding bare skin,
my being, whole and
rushing into blood alchemy
I will sail in her
veins for all eternity
Sex is the real battlefield.
She is unafraid of my unveiled
sword, I failed to erase that
deep indigo hummingbird
written on her chest,
When I come closer, her eyes
become obsidian mirror glaze,
I willingly drown in her water
I anchor myself as deep as
our ships first embraced
the Veracruz coast
Each night she refuses
to translate her body
as I navigate her
labyrinth shores
until she rips
Each night she kills me
as I try to grow inside her to
cross her skin
She has not forgiven herself
for Tenochtitlan, the broken
bodies falling off the pyramides
her mother offered corn to so
the sun would return
to light the sky
each morning,
She can not forget
her translations led to
Cuauhtemoc’s feet burning,
tied to a tree
crying to the moon
That night I kissed
her coffee skin,
her body- a coffin
unwilling to sing
back the symphony my
fingers played over
the arc of her neck
as I knotted her in
my Spanish tongue
The day she finally left
she said would only speak
to me again after I learn to believe
Quetzal feathers are the real gold
and I am cured from the curse
that made our boats pregnant
with metals to praise the dead messiah
hanging over the heart of my queen
Wouldn’t you rather fly
as a hymned eagle
dreamt by the sun ?
Beautiful!