After a Live Performance of Ofrenda de Cempasuchil

Ofrenda de Cempasuchil by Rodrigo Loman
(Marygold Offering for Día de los Muertos)

On the road to the cemetery
Marching steps grow heavier and sadder
Processions of musical notes
All ring with the glow of their candles

Flower music turns into fruit music
Baskets of shadow murmur with sound
Crosses of salt are spread over graves
To feed the dead with the earth’s bread

This offering of music flowers
From the crypt like the birth of birth
It lines the pathways with its golden glow
And flows past our reality into another

Suddenly sensation leaves the body
The dance is possessed by ghosts
It’s like bones are joyously dancing
And spirit feels itself in flesh again

We’ve all been made flesh by the music
Remembered by it and reanimated
Mixed into the melody of mortality
Stillness and the silence that sings

Fatima

for Fátima Cecilia Aldrighett Antón 

Brighter than the sun, Fatima,
Exposing everyone.
For a child to suffer such a death
Must be any father’s outrage.
Where are the men?
Have we all become monsters?
And you, little miracle of the sun,
And you, little Fatima,
Brighter than the sun
Expose everyone.

Mariposa Requiem

for Raúl Hernández Romero
and Homero Gómez González

Who needs a mariposa when we value
Profits over Beauty and Nature.
Why not kill all butterflies,
Grind them under our boots
Into gravity’s deepest grave.
We can’t let them pass through Purgatory.

Let’s declare a mariposa massacre,
Burn them in ovens– as they’re also God’s chosen.
Who needs a butterfly when we can pin them
Under glass and say
They were the anthologists of love,
Messengers between magic realms, flying flowers,
Living souls, sun leaves, wind riders,
They who sipped at the waters of Paradise.

I cross the Great Lakes to bring back
Your names, Raúl and Homero…,
They can’t kill the mariposa in us,
Soaring is tattooed on our souls.
We blossom into being, over and over,
To keep this earth from being Hell.

Homero Gómez González

Today you are a murdered butterfly,
Like flower petals in the wind,
Each one falling to earth like something rare.

Today you are a murdered butterfly,
Your scales are like gold dust.
Black rain in black hearts.

Today you are a murdered butterfly.
Even Malverde is unmasked
By what the butterfly can see:

Twelve thousand suns and moons.
Twelve thousand skies and forests
And twelve thousand murderers…

Today you are a murdered butterfly,
Your migration will take you far
Beyond the fallen earth, Homero.