Serving House: A Journal of Literary Arts
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SHJ Issue 2
Fall 2010

[One Poem]

Andrea Watson

Serenity of If

For Rigoberta Menchú
If I sit at the table with the sapphire cloth, 
bullets scarring the lane to abuelita’s 
door will not pierce six veins.

If the day and the un/day drift  
above the striped blanket, her jade 
cup on the pine shelf will not shatter.

The jagged sun has been shot   
out of the sky. Perhaps the gods  
wait to permit dusk’s unweaving.

Now the coral house fastens 
to if as three sisters watch at eyeless
windows. How many miles to midnight

where men in cotton armor enter room after 
room and mirrors melt with what they remove—
a splaying of limbs, this falling of hearts? If

I hide in my skin, then Lupe y Engracia  
will float high above hills of the young maize.   
If I take in flesh like nahual snakes, let  

them plow me into scorched earth, 
Ixchel, sweet moon goddess, arrays us    
in copper innocence, and we soar 

as ringdoves from our sky cages. All this, 
if bodies burn indigo, if men birth such stillness,
our resurrected finally speak, wordless.


“...we have been born here to witness and celebrate. We wonder at our purpose for living. Our purpose
is to perceive the fantastic. Why have a universe if there is no audience?” — Ray Bradbury