This Ain’t Your Abuela’s Llorona
The house waits patiently for La Llorona
with the red stain of periwinkle.
The floating, little socks in the blue arroyo
now quite yellow.
La Llorona’s drunk husband
knocks over beer bottles in green haste.
He slaps her, kicks her, fucks her,
but soon he’ll don the purple.
What color have I left out,
she screams along the flooded dark arroyo,
pulling at her wet, black hair
with her bloody, brown hands.