Altar For the Not Yet Dead Things
I decorate the altar with visions,
Marigolds, and pan dulce. The black
And white photos of deceased
Ancestors create the backdrop
For these offerings. Their faces
Still and emotionless gaze
Upon the single shot of whisky
I pour into a shot glass. The trago
Grandfather had every night
Before bed. As the shot
Glass overflows, I wonder why
We don't make altars
For the things not yet dead.
No tributes to the migrating
Hummingbirds. No odes to mother's
Calloused hands. No homage
To all of the children torn
From their mother’s arms,
Placed in cages with soiled
Diapers, forced to drink toilet
Water. I trace my name
On orange petals like a prayer
For lost kin then place
The petals in the compost.
All my muses are dead, though
Ghosts are the best storytellers.
No bones restrict their animated
Gestures. Corporal bodies no longer
Hinder their observation. Free
They float through the ether.
No more torn ligaments or pangs
Of hunger. Just the low hums
Of their comings at the
Intersection of children’s laughter
And their pleas for help.
Gustavo Barahona-López is a poet and educator from the San Francisco Bay Area. In his writing, Barahona-López draws from his experience growing up in a Mexican immigrant household. His work can be found or is forthcoming in Apogee Journal,Glass’ Poets Resist, PALABRITAS, Puerto del Sol, The Acentos Review, Homology Lit, Hayden’s Ferry Review, among other publications. When Barahona-López is not teaching you can find him re-discovering the world with his son.
Jerry Flores is an Indigenous LA Mexican. He resides north of the wall and keeps the old gods.