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Clutching a Bible,
the woman with
penciled in eyebrows,
who used nail polish
as lipstick, asked me
if I was a Christian.
Before I could say
anything, she
kept talking, and said,
"I know you want me
to burn in hell. If
that is God’s will, I will."
"If you could get me
released, I would
appreciate it,
she said. "Otherwise,
you could go and butt-
fuck yourself very much."
Clutching her Bible,
I looked at it,
and then at her. She
had a devilish smile.
She calmly walked out
of the room with a grin.
I forgive my forehead.
Sitting here I rub it.
I forgive my right hand.
I scratch my head all day.
I want to stop. I draw
blood on my soft head. I
try not to hurt myself
so much. I feel gloomy
in my heart. I forgive
the soft part of my head
soaked in blood. Because I
am hatless I cannot
hide the blood in my head.
My skull was filled termites.
My black hair was long gone.
One day I will haunt the termites
and everything will be square.
The clouds over my grave
dropped cats and dogs on it.
A puddle formed near my grave.
The color of the grass was bright green.
The termites had nightmares
of me dead on their tracks.
Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal, 42, was born in Cuernavaca, Morelos (Mexico), and has lived in Los Angeles County since age seven. He works in the mental health field. His poems in English and Spanish have appeared in The American Dissident, The Blue Collar Review, Pemmican Press, and Struggle Magazine. His first book of poems, Raw Materials, is from Pygmy Forest Press. He has a new chapbook coming out: Digging A Grave from Kendra Steiner Editions.