Cannibals

There are arrows carved of human

bone, in crooks
in caves, ritual hangings

on the trees—the flesh
of enemies.

Isn’t this our history—written on the
bodies as they’re put into the ground.
Like the earlobe pendants, molar necklaces
you saw men wear on television.

It was the ocean-salted skin of sailors

That turned my people blind.
High-speed blood bursting veins,
diabetic, comatose,

becomes genetic over time.

Somewhere in the basement

of my parents’ home,
a hidden cave scooped
out the mountainside
a coastal land devoured

by the sea. Will you find

a spyglass, compass, undigested,

lodged inside the ribcage

of my great-great-grandfather’s
great-great grandmother?

If you climb to the top of the hill, and stare
long enough, and if you have enough
faith, it’ll make itself clear to you.

A stain
on the altar to the gods
in the shape

of a savage brother’s

savage heart.

Juan Fernando Villagómez is a writer from Houston, TX. His work has been published in the Cincinnati Review, The Acentos Review, and Adelaide Literary Magazine. He is a member of the Macondo community for writers and was a finalist for the 2021 Keene Prize for Literature. His writing has received support from the James A. Michener Center for Writers and the Crawley-Garwood Research Grant. He holds an MFA in fiction from the University of Texas in Austin where he lives with his dog, Abba and two cats, Brick and Ghost.