XII. Nothing

Llego a la casa y me pongo a fumar
con mis dedos de hielo.
Con tanto frío que tengo se me ha espantado
hasta el miedo.
Music: “Heroes del Estereo,” by Huáscar Robles.
Puerto Rico. 2010.

Neither Naty, nor Dona Silva, nor Don Alvin could figure this out. The stench still follows me like a muerto hiding in the corners. Naty taught me to leave small white plates with peppermint bon bons on a corner of the room. “The rats won’t touch them,
trust me. Those are for Elegua, who lives in corners and crossroads. And an upside down jar of water on top of the refrigerator to keep the muertos and the past lovers away.” I lit palo santo and
placed it next to the jar. These two things must always be kept at a
high point of the house. So many rules.

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This selection comes from the book, Naty and My Chaotic Stench, available from Anomalous Press.  Purchase your copy here! Our curator for this selection is Nilsa Ada Rivera.

 

I. Ali

A tangled, hairy mess lays on the bed, arms spread out and legs
up on the wall. Long dark hair spilling from the bed to the floor.
The Hanged Man. “What a world, what a world…,” the wicked
witch shrieks out of the television as she melts. I stare at the white
paint bubbles on my ceiling. The biggest one takes the shape of
South America, dripping out of the dirty, white ceiling. I fantasize about being a wild Amazon woman with hair reaching down to my thighs and wild orchids tangled in unruly curls that smell
of waterfalls and mud, rain and mangos, and blossoming Birds of Paradise. Worrying only about the rain.

Smoke from the burning sage gathers into thick blankets above
the bed, soundproofing my room so the thunder and the lightning only resonate in my head. I stay quiet and visualize the storm soaking everything up, washing off the colors and wrapping the
world in a monochrome blanket. I lick my lips. Peppermint incense makes me hungry…

Music: “Las sirenas” by Los Espíritus, Puerto Rico, 2016.
https://losespiritus.bandcamp.com/track/las-sirenas

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This selection comes from the book, Naty and My Chaotic Stench, available from Anomalous Press.  Purchase your copy here! Our curator for this selection is Nilsa Ada Rivera.

 

II. The Stench

At the moment, I have an urgent matter to resolve. No, let me explain. In these past few weeks, I’ve started to notice something quite embarrassing: I have acquired an insistent body odor. It’s a
kind of syrupy, rancid smell. I shower everyday, I swear! I have no idea why this is happening. The people I’ve asked claim that they can’t smell a thing, but they might be lying; the type of nice that
will not get its hands dirty.

In the Department Store, I slip between perfume booths without uttering a single sound, avoiding eye contact with the saleswomen and their overly done makeup. I cruise around the aisles, sliding through thick clouds of Chanel and Yves Saint Laurent and all those other tiny bottles I can’t afford, desperately searching for a magic potion that could hide my persistent odor. But, like a curse, all scents merged into a single odor—a knife that slowly pierced my nostrils—and I could no longer tell the difference. It was a smell that reminded me of the slow plastic decay of ladies with Botox and lots of jewelry. “Frustration” was scribbled like an invisible tattoo on my forehead. I could feel it; it itched. What a total waste of time. This chaotic stench was still following me…

I need to talk to Naty.

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This selection comes from the book, Naty and My Chaotic Stench, available from Anomalous Press.  Purchase your copy here! Our curator for this selection is Nilsa Ada Rivera.

 

NATY AND MY CHAOTIC STENCH

Darkness. A purple haze. The oracle speaks….

Once was red and twice was crimson blood. Tonight prophetic visions
echo from my pillows. In exchange for a bag of sleep-leaves, I shall
reveal the movement of the planets by reading the way blood rushes
through my veins. From underneath a blindfold, I will share with you
a kaleidoscopic vision of reality.

Let’s begin…

A huge cigar hangs from her mouth. The room is thick with the
scent of paprika, cilantro, and tomato sauce. Big buttocks sway
under a large purple skirt that sweeps the floor. She’s singing one
of those cantinero songs, from old jukeboxes in Mexican bars. The
hexes that rough-looking men sang to their lovers with drunken
passion and despair. I sat at the table, planted my black sneakers
firmly on the ground, and picked at the chipped black nail polish
on my nails.

Fire the casserole con to y la madre, como dicen por ahí… Pa los gustos, los colores.

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This selection comes from the book, Naty and My Chaotic Stench, available from Anomalous Press.  Purchase your copy here! Our curator for this selection is Nilsa Ada Rivera.

 

“jíbara bruja”

Soy bruja
witch that perches on avocado trees
with talones de gallina de palo.

Talons of an iguana slowly climbing branches to get a taste of our fruit.

Talons of a rooster trained to fight to defend my honor.
I am most comfortable under the rainstorms that make the montes sweat
and birth streams.

I can see that you have

eyes of el guaraguao (the hawk) as it soars with its kind over mountains,
ears of el mucaro (the owl) listening to the rustle of palm trees.

The skirts of the island have been lifted
and a leather belt has licked her skin, left trails of red, blue, black
to replace our flag.

This is a funeral.

With all its intricate ornaments and multicolored blossoms,
it is still a funeral.

My jíbara spirit is a magnetic field
cradled in the plantain breasts of the forest.

I can only follow its call.

It sounds like thunder and rides the back of wild horses.
Yes, we’ve got wild horses.

Tell me,
where are you from?

Did you get here on purpose?

Where are you headed?

What are your dreams made of?
Mine taste like rain.

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This selection comes from the book, Naty and My Chaotic Stench, available from Anomalous Press.  Purchase your copy here! Our curator for this selection is Nilsa Ada Rivera.