What should poetry mean to a woman in the hills
as she sits one long sloping summer evening
in Patria, Aizawl, her head crammed with contrary winds,
pistolling the clever stars that seem to say:
Ignoring the problem will not make it go away.

So what if Ernestina is not a name at all,
not even a corruption, less than a monument. She will sit
pulling on one thin cigarillo after another, will lift her teacup
in friendly greeting to the hills and loquacious stars
and the music will comb on through her hair,
telling her: Poetry must be raw like a side of beef,
should drip blood, remind you of sweat
and dusty slaughter and the epidermal crunch
and the sudden bullet to the head.

The sudden bullet in the head. Thus she sits, calmly gathered.
The lizard in her blinks and thinks. She will answer: 
The dog was mad that bit me. Later, they cut out my third eye 
and left it in a jar on a hospital shelf. That was when the drums began. 
Since then I have met the patron saint of sots and cirrhosis who used to stand
in every corner until the police chased her down. She jumped into a taxi.
Now I have turned into the girl with the black guitar
and it was the dog who died. Such is blood. 

The rustle of Ernestina’s skirt will not reveal the sinful vine
or the cicada crumbling to a pair of wings at her feet. 
She will smile and say: I like a land where babies 
are ripped out of their graves, where the church
leads to practical results like illegitimate children and bad marriages 
quite out of proportion to the current population, and  your neighbour
is kidnapped by demons and the young wither without complaint

and pious women know the sexual ecstasy of dance and peace is kept
by short men with a Bible and five big knuckles on their righteous hands.
Religion has made drunks of us all. The old goat bleats.
We are killing ourselves. I like an incestuous land. Stars, be silent.
Let Ernestina speak.

So what if the roses are in disarray? She will rise
with a look of terror too real to be comical. 
The conspiracy in the greenhouse the committee of good women
They have marked her down   
They are coming         the dead dogs the yellow popes
They are coming     the choristers of stone 

We have been bombed silly out of our minds.  


Waiter, bring me something cold and hard to drink.
Somewhere there is a desert waiting for me
and someday I will walk into it.