The Vocation

Lit with strange carpentry magic — they build time-shares in her head. They carve names deep in wood, erect beams of metal to hold up the invincible defense of a bad history. They mourn what’s subjective. They are shutters closed. Sometimes I imagine such men in flip-flops with fat towels draped over confident shoulders. I imagine they all live in Texas, and find South Padre too hot, and then I imagine them blaming diversity for everything. Here, in the middle of grief, we pout to the rhythm of their sentences. Suns hiss in their dreams. Soon such critics will meet daily for prayers. The Pharisees identify the guilty woman. They are gathering sticks for a witch burning. Curandera lit with the fire of sighs, casts spells, burns sage, sweats in a lodge, her own prayers flaming.