Day of the Dead

Bolivia, 2009
 
Her fevered body quivers on the cool, tiled floor  
of a bathroom, near the tangled nest of a hotel bed.  
Staccato of fireworks, as the parasite claws its way  
 
through dehydrated organs. At the Mercado de las Brujas,  
revelers purchase marigolds, candy skulls, and bread-children,  
to cart to the graves of the Valle de Flores.  A hitchhiker  
 
tortures the bowels with a vicious will to devour, to live.  
Crawling from the hell of the toilet, to the purgatory  
of the bed, she knows hours are limited, and how fitting,  
 
to meet her end in a volcanic crater, in the neat bowl  
of La Paz, city of ashes.  The bumpy ride from Uyuni,  
a cold shiver starting up in the Cordillera, as Mt. Illimani  
 
glowed under the full moon; it stalked her, pulled her  
down like prey, raw and immediate.  Now, the curious  
ghosts descend.  In her delirium, they speak  
 
their mythical language, over the marching band  
near the Iglesia de San Francisco, its pounding vibration,  
its brassy chaos.  Blood, shit, and vomit; inferno of the body,  
 
purification of sin.  The calacas come to life, following  
flowery paths amid dancing cholitas, the swish and swirl  
of skirts and shawls, tinkling of spirit bells.  Across the city,
 
on home altars, candles sputter, and fruit begins  
its slow decay.  The veil between worlds is thin;  
everyone, happy to be alive, or happy to be dead.  
 
 
 
*Note: This poem also appears in The Montucky Review:  
http://montuckyreview.blogspot.com/search/label/Lauren%20Tivey