photo credit: Giulian Frisoni
Pippa Little
Ofrenda
My altar is hungry for candles, my man’s sweat for salt,
wild honey, mezcal, fresh packs of cigarettes.
I bring marigolds from the street stall
not for grief but for their hot spite.
Ofrenda
My altar is hungry for candles, my man’s sweat for salt,
wild honey, mezcal, fresh packs of cigarettes.
I bring marigolds from the street stall
not for grief but for their hot spite.
Now I wait, open the window wide,
summon desire. Moonless,
it runs on its nerves, bloody
as Santa Muerta’s breath.
Lover, swallow up my life, I don’t want
to wake in the dawn chill to find you gone.
Let’s dance as the old ones do in the square,
slowly, making do with forgiveness:
when morning comes I’ll lick the sugar crusts soft
like a street dog, throw your souring
Manzanilla down my throat, I who am stuck here
in a widow’s body, you who are on long vacation
from your life: this ofrenda is our bed,
kiss me as I inhale you and our musk melts
into a residue I could live on for ever.