Excerpt From the Americ Book of the Dead
The old woman’s body on a platform that fills the cave, pallid skin, leathered face, lower lip stretched up over the upper, sutured in place with a skinned twig, eyes sewn shut with purple thread. Naked body covered in filthy gauze. Dead or sleeping.
The post-natal mother on her side on the floor, writhing and moaning. The infant on its back beside her, flailing limbs like an upturned insect. Trying its body on for size. Trying to break free.
Thirteen black-robed and bald androgynes aligned against the wall, humming. Facing her, the mother, the old woman, the newly dead, the sleeping dead, the baby. Thirteen voice boxes droning the unknown frequency of a forgotten tune.
The Prince of Dark, a man unseen, behind a screen, preaching, muttering indecipherable secrets. The smell of lava and smoke. He is not there.
I am a silent witness.
The midwife returns, carrying an abalone shell, pink, green, blue, nacre, mother of pearl. She places the shell on the old woman’s body. Pulls a vial from her grey folds, drinks from it, pours the rest on the floor.
I am afraid.
The mother reaches up, grabs my hand, pulls me down to lay on top of her. I am straddling her with hands and knees on the dirt floor. She reaches around my neck with both hands, pulling me down. I am heavy between her legs.
the weight of my body / grinding / writhing / hands exploring the contours of my denim-covered inner thighs / my ass / the seam along my perineum
the Dark Man speaking softly / murmuring / thirteen / of us / of them / humming / vibrating / me fighting against her / she is too strong / her consuming me
death born in the cellular body at the moment of conception
death escaping the womb / she who determines when the fighting commences / retreating / into our pre-birth mind
death a decrepit woman / stuffed / displayed in the Americ museum of cultural anthropology
death a squirming infant / waiting to make sense / of its place in the scheme of this / thing / between my thighs
death comes / the midwife / she is the angel of it
death a desperate orgasm achieved as a defense against time
I am borne...