• Vol. 04
  • Chapter 11


I am the counterweight to Rivera's
her lithe and naked back turned to you, her voyeur,
as she kneels before the cannas.

She conceals nothing but her face and breasts,
and everything else that you would touch.
You ache for her to reveal it all.

I, who am only too aware that I have no allure,
repel you even with my naked feet,
snake-like eyes, eagle's beak.

I, who have much to hide
let it all hang out beneath the disguise
of a trite sombrero, a clichéd sarape.

There are no tender lilies in my background
only the spikes of opuntia, stabs of agave,
but I defy you: take down that impostor

from the pale walls of your northern penthouse,
hang me there instead to fly the colours
of my flag. It is her flag too.