Oyá

Oyá

"Your son was blessed 

with life, but it comes 

at a price. The rabbit,
who's throat you sliced
open in my graveyard, 

my temple,
is not enough 

for this child,"
came the words
from my ten
year-old mouth—
not my words.

"Your child was mine,
is mine,
has always been
mine.
He is on loan
at my discretion,
Eternally returnable to
sender, & it pains me
every day I am
without him."

I was there, but I wasn't—
lost beneath the weight
of Puerto Rican rum
& Dominican cigar
& Oyá, orisha of the dead,
Original Mother.

"He will live,
but you will not,"
dragged dread
through my heart as
my mouth continued
to spout another's
Words. ¡Yet, I could not
stop! "I will leave him
here, for now,
for the world to use
his gifts a while
longer, but know this:
I will take each & every
one of you instead."

I realized then
that loving me
is a death sentence
no words
could ever 

complete.