Litany I & II
The following is based on a true story:
In 1969, the bridge hadn’t been built yet
Poor Araceli, mother of five
By the time they pulled the third child out of the river
She had collapsed,
Clutching at her chest
Clawing at the skirts
Betrayal of a sinking truck, a selfish impatient man, and a husband
Poor Araceli, mother of five and three dead bodies
Back then, it was only a trail down the mountains from El Salvador down to Tequila
Only burros and donkeys and horses alike—maybe a truck sometimes
Three hours wayside
Husband hitched a ride, told his wife and children get inside
Piled into the cab next to the smoking driver
When they called in divers, we smelled it first
The smell of rot
Of the third son, so young
Ay, the six month old, the one she had last summer, widow next door whispers
As they dragged his bloated body through the street
It was only a raft in 1969
Poor Araceli gone to church
Whole town’s come to pray
A thousand hail marys
We will pray until we are sick
We will pray until those poor children are in heaven
One person goes first—ninety nothing prayers—the next starts to lead
Lord bless these poor babies
All we had was prayers to give
Baptized in the rivers of Amatitán
Raft unbalanced as it tips over the side
Sending the family of seven wayside still inside
When they announced it on the radio that the divers found the third child
And Araceli looked at her two young children left in guilt
And stood quiet as they told her, we found his head stuck in the back window of the
This is punishment for surviving
This is the punishment for living
Lightning’s struck twice and god’s abandoned poor Araceli
Come town crier,
She’s a victim of a man’s hurried desire
To get across a river
Whose bridge had been embezzled and immolated seven times over before it was born
Bribe the priest
To bless the funeral and bury an unbaptized baby
Husband sits so perfectly, so angry as they lower them in their final restings
Poor Araceli,
Sits vacant-eyed
Husband can no longer speak to her
Mother in-law combs her hair, ushers her here and there
I’m afraid there’s just nothing that can be done here
Mother of mothers could not save her
We buried her about a year after.
Litany II
In 1969,
The truck driver fled
Scared of being strung up for his ways
Returns
After the family is long gone
They are all publicized relics now
Twists his foot inside the widow’s door
My love, mi amor
Fucks her while guilt or maybe narcissism or maybe the fact they should've gone one by one—family first, then the truck, then continue on—eats him from the inside
Smoking rolled cigarettes and drinking a fifth
He's got a scar on his lip
From the last man's wife
Son plays soccer outside
So childish and so immersed in violence
Teenage boys getting drunk under orange trees and fighting and crying like lost babies
They have all seen men die before the age of eighteen
It’s depressing, really
Sitting in a sleazy bar,
Drunken, bragging about all the girls he’s done before
Son sits with his friends
Listening to his unrepentance
Oh look, here comes the widow’s name
Out of his mouth
I wonder what the son will do now
Get my mother’s name out,
Laughter
Carries on talking about the boy’s mother in this manner—
Storms out
He’s hotblooded and he’s got the anger and the firepower to prove it
Cantinas carry a collection of bullet holes around these parts
Today, there’s another one
Marking the spot in the bar
Where a son shot the truck driver
We ducked beneath tables and watched him bleed.
Ojo por ojo.
Diente por diente.
Dead daddy’s pistol served its purpose
And so the son flees
And the world continues on, furious and bloody
Families fractured, saints delivered, guilty guns and well-loved widows
Mother of mothers, come save them
Pray over each of their caskets
May they each find their way to damnation
May they each find their way to salvation
Mother Mary, if we are born to die,
please let it be nice
In the early 2000s, the Puente de Amatitán-El Salvador was finally built.
Today there is a dam. Today there is a road. Today there is a bridge.
This does nothing for them.