Diego on My Mind by Pascale Petit

Today I chose the ceremonial huipil

with a lace cobweb framing my face.

I have made a fine bed for you

with the white frills of my Tehuana headdress.

And on the counterpane of my brow

just where the pillows would rest

I have painted your portrait.

All day you keep me company

as I work each gauze bud

into a stiff flower.

You whisper encouragements from the mirror,

nestling deeper into my forehead.

But remember, when you take

María Félix

Paulette Goddard

or my sister

to your dirty yellow hotel room,

they lie on my eyes.

My nose smells them.

My mouth stays closed. Every love-cry

is a silk tendril

quivering in my silent house.