Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

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The Crying Woman

Who is that woman
dragging herself
throughout the city
well after midnight?

The closer she gets
the woman is
not what she appears.
She is a shadow.

Her head is a cloud.
Her feet are roots
of a diseased tree;
her hands, gnarled branches.

As she touches you,
she feels like sand,
like sawdust, and her
horse laugh terrifies.

She is not human.
She is all fog
and dew. She weeps and
hollers by the creek.

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The Man Without a Head

He would walk without his head,
but he never forgot his heart.
He would walk with a cane
and the black shoes he wanted
to be buried in when that hour
came. The wind would blow
strong, caressing his headless
face. He would eat fruit and
crushed almonds. He would
talk to his beloved, though
she was gone. The crowd of
people, couples, would look at
the way he walked and talked.
With perplexed eyes, they
formed a mental picture of
the man without a head.
They did not like him. His act
was growing old. They wanted
him to walk with his head.
They wanted him to breathe
the oxygen and take in
the aromas of the city.
He walked with an air of
indifference. Even the birds
of autumn disliked him.
The birds of spring didn’t care.
He took a chance going out
headless. This was not in fashion.
The man did not care. He was
not looking for a new lover.
His true love was gone. Other
women did nothing for him.
He had no love for them.

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The Sleeping Lady

 Where the lady is sleeping,
her long hair is crawling with spiders
and spider webs.  When you turn
on the light the spiders scatter.
The sleeping lady is not dead.
She is as old as time itself.
The spiders weave love notes in her
hair.  She waits for the perfect man.
Time is not an issue.

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Banner Art:
Photo by Jeswin Thomas, Unsplash, 2023