Arnoldo García

quetzalcoatl

my languages

have muddied work-boots on

callused syllables for hands

my languages

are prome

to heart attacks and alcoholism

my languages have peaceful armies called spring

who wage war for flower, song and a living wage

pregnant with seeds, souls and sacrifice

fertile

awaiting

your tongues

*

My tongue is

a feathered serpent

crawling in the spittle of massacres

flying into the dust of retreats

organizing for the sixth sun...