The Tale of Kitchen Spirits
       

Ages ago, this town was all wood.
You had to get to know each tree as a
madrina. You knew this birch that creaks
with wind guides you west; this willow with
bark soft as hair would sing songs from
before the arrival of sky. And everyone
could hear the spirits.

Spirits don't use words, slow things
that they are. Spirits talk to the bones,
the hands, the hips. Wood women
spoke to the spirits the most. They
learned many important stories
like when the sun used to have wings
and how leaves came to be.

Priests came from far away, adorned
with beads of gold and brass. They impressed
the woodfolk with their finery, with their
silks and shoes. And they said only they
could know spirits.

They made women stay inside
so they could forget how to speak
from their bones and feet. They
said, you work best in service,
and they passed skillets and spoons
and iron and made each wood
woman kneel in thanks.

The priests, they'd stopped hearing
spirits years before. It happened so
slow and soft. They confused the ritual
for the spirit, and for this, they lost
everything.

If they could follow the voice
of spirits, they'd see that the spirits
moved out of their consecrated
customs. They'd see that the spirits
moved into the kitchen.

We still have kitchen spirits,
you know. Why do you think
your madre has hung those stone
stars over the stove. How
does she cut the skin of sky
with her cuchillo and make storms
dissolve as though she'd asked nicely.

If you listen close, you can hear
her talk to the spirits. Sometimes
she even prays aloud, even though
the spirits have always preferred
fingers and bone.

In the name of la madrina de birch,
she tosses the tortillas on the skillet.
En el nombre de las caderas,
swung from side to side to the heart
beat. We gather the ghosts on the vine
and dice them to la salsa cut with lluvia.

Amen, amen, y amen.

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Copyright © 2019 Raquel Vasquez Gilliland All rights reserved
from Tales from the House of Vasquez
Rattle
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission