Paintless homes in Cuautla

Mother, o mother,

You poisoned yourself of yourself,

Drank yourself proud,

I can handle me,

Said you while on the floor,

While watering the sun,

And those who saw you grow said you wouldn´t,

Because, mother, you had lost your sight a while ago.

Remember the night you told me you'd seen a ghost?

It was peeping whilst you dined with grandma,

Then noticed it was just yourself on the aluminum door of the fridge,

Peeping to what you were actually doing,

Just peeping,

That's all you did do.

Any other night you confessed grandma had paid you a visit in a dream,

She was dead, yet she talked and asked why I laid with a man who wasn't my husband,

You said,

She was furious and called me a whore,

You said,

And shouted I must be stoned to death, like she was,

Whore, she shouted, while slapping my thighs,

So when I woke up they were burning red, you said.

You spun your tales so craftedly you fed on fear,

That one when people are old and no one hands them a dime for food,

So they were you and gave themselves money for squat,

They left,

Thus you could feast like a fucking swine,

And laughed, at them people, at me.

I tell you this on your deathbed because there's no better chance,

You can't reply, you won't,

You won't tell me how full of shite I am,

How much of an asshole every man in my life has been,

You won't laugh stupid because you won't tell who my father was,

And I can get close and whisper that,

Despite my love for you,

You are about to leave me alone.

The house would be green, would be brown, would be orange,

Would be brittle, with laughter painted on every wall,

And kids lying on improvised beds telling scary stories under the blankets,

And improvised pools in the yard for the sun was rash,

Meals came, went, the family had pop and beer,

And despite what you wished not, you smiled.

And your children and your children’s children shone,

Quiet and cheerful, you kept your world to yourself,

The love of your Jesus seemed to have taken place,

Red roses of cherub voices in the garden,

Impervious all to your gashing curses.

Yet you’re dying where I sleep now,

Being the one who’s not yourself,

Unconsciously praying for breath,

So soft and fragile,

Give your hand to me, o mother,

Say to me why you’ve spilt your blood on me,

Why I am your choice for a last sight,

Instead of your paintless home in Cuautla.