Check Engine

.
he check engine light
,
constant as the North Star
in the dashboard constellation

an ignored warning on the black and orange horizon
where glowing indicators and digital numbers
twinkle, silent and constant, from the metal, plastic, circuitry

occasional grunts and groans mixed in from the beyond
among the grumbles of the living engine, struggling
like we all do over the hill, the burden of gravity

wheels rattling over the same pitted pavement
between here and there, star stuff the dust on the hood,
a cosmos of a thousand small paint scratches

and in the cabin the odometer spirals,
getting closer to the end as the numbers grow,
bad news deferred until the go is gone.

* * * * *

Kimberly L. Wright, an editor of a small weekly newspaper, lives in Prattville, Ala., USA. Her poetry has previously appeared in Dicat Libre, El Locofoco, Doggerel, Arrowsmith and Dr. Hurley’s Snake-Oil Cure.  She is klwright73 on Twitter. Her other contributions to Snake-Oil Cure can be found here.

On the origin of chorizo

.

n Aztec medicine man, whose name has been lost to history
with bushy, serious eyebrows like my grandfather – an ancestor of his?
sent his understudy
— oh that is my Anglo approximation. I don’t know their language —
to wander the underworld on a fact-finding mission.
He rendered his disciple fit for the journey,
slitting his throat with a ceremonial dagger.
The body thudded to the floor, a gurgling fountain of vermilion.

After three days, the medicine man, with his unparalleled knowledge
of arcane arts, brought life back to the corpse
knife track knit, and the body
warmed and filled up with fresh blood again,
as if he had never been cut.

Suddenly, as if drawn by the power of necromancy,
the king of demon pigs appeared,
a fiery red, pudgy porker with yellow eyes and sooty hair,
escapee from the underworld, smoke shooting
from his nostrils, squealing louder than an avalanche,
an aural catastrophe that destroyed much of the medicine man’s home
before the creature could be brought to heel with a magical abeyance.
Judging the pig a menace to the world, the medicine man
and his revenant understudy slaughtered it
and ground up every bit, snout to toe, the gristle-filled accordion guts,
jelly eyeballs, even the squeal sealed in.
Inspired, they mixed in the nose-hair singing spices
the understudy had brought up from some underworldly kitchen.
When he had revived, mystery of mysteries, it was found
clutched in his earthly hand.

The sausage created from this mixture — out-of-this-world sinful.
All who tasted it died where they sat, instantly, of pleasure,
a death that outmatched the medicine man’s revival skill.
Who could wake such smiling corpses?
Lost for the second and final time, the understudy
was left to forever study the under.

The chorizo made today is a culinary yearning
for that unattainable, deadly sausage,
the perfect accompaniment for scrambled eggs.

* * * * *

Kimberly L. Wright, an editor of a small weekly newspaper, lives in Prattville, Ala., USA. Her poetry has previously appeared in Dicat Libre, El Locofoco, Doggerel, Arrowsmith and Dr. Hurley’s Snake-Oil Cure.  She is klwright73 on Twitter. Her other contributions to Snake-Oil Cure can be found here.

En el cielo, fronteras no hay

Silvio sings to me
from across the embargo line,
a specter from Cuba decoded off ribbon.
My body, coral reef white, city
fluorescent light, cold as bathtub porcelain,
soaks in the Straits of Florida.
This lilting song blows breath
into debris, what once ventured
across livid ocean and broke apart
into planks engorged with water,
splintered ribs of a galleon
crusted over with limestone
of sessile sea dead that settled
to the bottom. But there is life.
Brain coral mounds, fan coral maroon
on the apex. Gurgles caress, gentle waves
lap twined mangrove roots
where sleek crustacean children sleep.
My hair swirls, a sea anemone
stretching out stinging fingers.
His voice nibbles on my hip.

Terrarium

Young men catch snakes for their own good,
rescue what slithered in wide circuit
through ragweed and muck,
retained in glass eight-by-four cubed
with a centimeter-deep pond.
Coiled coffin kings, sterile as pharaoh carapaces,
swallow lab mice dropped in deus ex machina, lethargic
without adrenaline spice and palpitating heart.
A sunset of rosehips and orange petals,
lemon custard with meringue clouds
–all this is sealed out.
Tea leaves float in a cooling cup.
Every so often a patch
of gold creeps its way between shutters,
taunts this underworld
of shoe leather, plastic bags,
and Pine-Sol, pungent, stinging a flagellant tongue.
Slave of retreating sun, the liquid gold
slithers away, fading in degrees,
until only a warm spot
remains on the floor.
Color this diminutive mouse life
egg-shell white.
An overhead bulb glows
with the brightness
of a thousand maggots.

Above all

The sun leans on all passers-by
drying the breadcrumbs until
their parchment skin crackles,
wrinkles branded like black hieroglyphs
from a fiery pharaoh. Oblong mister sinister
sweetens tomatoes into succulent red,
yet he turns aqua spools of yarn
into brittle snatches of hay.
He transforms you into your sterner sister.
He converts a countryside
of flesh into a land of lesions, factories of pus.
He shatters windows and arteries with a sneer.