My body is mad.
It listens to my bones exploding.
This is a close-up of my shattered column.
My face is mad.
My third eye is on fire.
They drive pins into my bones.
The hospital is mad.
They sew me together, bit by bit.
The floor drowns in blood.
My mind is mad.
Trapped in the hell of my body.
I paint myself falling from many heavens.
Mexico is mad.
Scarecrow dogs stagger to sugar skulls.
I paint my body as a cadaver.
My husband is mad.
I find him crying at my corpse.
And laugh and laugh, blessed by his pain.
TO PAINT YOU IS MADNESS
To paint you is madness.
What colours can I summon
for the volcano's lava bled into my mouth,
the sun's tongue on the forest's broad-backed leaves
moist and open to probing lianas,
the ladder of your talent
reaching to mirrors of the moon,
your statuesque trunk and feet
I try to coil in my python love?
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