Through my torso, the smooth

diffusion of aguas ardientes. Another

shot. Dawn.

Fan whir covers distant

rooster crow, dog bark cuts through fan whir.

That the world has you in its time? Is that what

she said? Meaning I too

drank from the glass on the night stand, swallowing

the spider before I knew

I’d seen it?

Two

girls in heels and

communion dresses

cross the window, their necks

bent shyly down.

Glancing at my watch, I turn back

to the hechicera, her face ashen, whirled

with lines. You still haven’t told me

if she’ll recover, I say.

You have the eyes of—, she

repeats twice, not finding the word. Then,

De donde viene?