Day of the Dead
La Paz, Bolivia, 2009
Her fevered body quivers on the cool, tiled floor
of a bathroom, near the tangled nest of a hotel bed.
Staccato of fireworks, as the parasite claws its way
through dehydrated organs. At the Mercado de las Brujas,
revelers purchase marigolds, candy skulls, and bread-children,
to cart to the graves of the Valle de Flores. A hitchhiker
tortures the bowels; a vicious will to devour, to live.
Crawling from the hell of the toilet, to the purgatory
of the bed, she knows hours are limited, and how fitting,
to meet her end in a volcanic crater, in the neat bowl
of La Paz, city of ashes. The bumpy ride from Uyuni,
a cold shiver starting up in the Cordillera, as Mt. Illimani
glowed under the full moon; it stalked her, pulled her
down like prey, raw and immediate. Now, the curious
ghosts descend. In her delirium, they speak
their mythical language, over the marching band
near the Iglesia de San Francisco, its pounding vibration,
its brassy chaos. Blood, shit, and vomit; inferno of the body,
purification of sin. The calacas come to life, following
flowery paths amid dancing cholitas, the swish and swirl
of skirts and shawls, tinkling of spirit bells. On altars
across the city, candles sputter, and fruit begins
its slow decay. The veil between worlds is thin;
everyone, happy to be alive, or happy to be dead.
