ode to cabeza de vaca
What good is it to see for miles and miles,
the tired, lonely explorer said to the fat queen,
prostrate by her feet, still not allowed to go home.
I am dying of omens that no one recognizes or understands,
and I am under anesthesia again, veil over my brain,
so I may be wrong, or confused about even simple things like
who I am.
It’s not what you think, the other side,
not a dream or a movie,
but more a sifting diamond sand washed up with the bodies,
so don’t tread there; don’t be anything.