Suzanne Grazyna
Dia de los Muertos
She’s a beautiful molded icon of death.
A yellow braided shawl drapes her ivory bleached clavicle,
tassel fringe snakes through the curls of her upturned hand.
Her jaw is open, a perpetual laugh, an eternal chide.
She doesn’t try to hide her joy.
Her empty socket twinkled sly, winks of past misdeeds:
Sangria baths, a whip on her hip, mantillas of midnight lace,
tequila kisses that smear blood-red lips across the face.
Or was she demure and shy?
A coral blush flushing her former cheek, its dimple dents;
tiny lap hands folded prim, sable hair in trim twirled bun
let loose with the slip of a pin for her waiting paramour.
She is seated in immortal silent sleep,
her secrets buried deep inside her Adam’s rib.