VII

plant the daffodils in her mirror
cast an impossible weight upon her ten heads
the wax will drip down the plumes into her eyes
like the scales that still cover theirs
she will fall

make every day a year
she will be bled dry
bodies cold and limp
can still give warmth at a pyre
too tired to scream
they all will walk away
safe and warm

better yet
shot twice and no one will bother to confirm the kill
come to the sick bed
and forage for a poultice
people reveal who they are
but she will not believe them
she will not be chosen
never chosen
and give her hope, the slowest death

they believe in a god they do not know
and cannot understand
she worships
with arms wide open
eyes wide shut
a vessel fit to shatter

tláloc will bring the rain
so that it isn’t all for nothing
have the fire priest take her to the stone
carve it out with obsidian
let the red truth steam in the sun
in the eagles vessel
for this she is worthy
ojalá que llueva
the earth reclaims her
there is no future
and the present is already ash