4. Standing by the fireplace, Todd Many Goats has my mother shower in ash.  Tarajean walks her slowly to the bathroom, removing each article of clothing as they remember the years of undressing my father in and out of comas.  My mom takes off her shame.  She reaches into the bowl of ashes and spreads them over her head, her face, her shoulders, her breasts, her stomach, her hips, her legs and her feet.  Gray and black, appearing earthly again, she comes back to the fireplace and sits among the medicine.  Todd asks for the arrowhead and begins his rhythmic singing. 

3. Sunlight comes through cane and mud thatched walls creating slabs of light running vertically across the room. Dust particles accentuate the molecular activities between the seen and invisible. My chair positioned in the doorway, I see the huddle of freshly born puppies on the outside of the wall, abandoned by their mom who scavenges for remnants of breakfast among the embers of the house fire.  My stomach sickens that most of the litter will simply not live. Old oil-like coffee splugges out of the pot and hisses the ashen wood, himself barely alive.  Inside, an orange hen pecks at blackened tortilla shards behind the bed.  Antonia covers herself on the bed and says matter of factly that we should expect visitors, “Ume toloko wiikichim chea huyolisi bwiki.” 

2. The fire chief picks up his shovel and goes counter-clockwise around the circle of members to reach the guest sitting crossed legged next to me.  He pushes his spade into the earth and picks up the small patch of vomit, lifts up the holdings and in one move turns it upside down and pushes it back into the ground.  Soiled soil.  Grandma comes through the fire to talk about lines.   An eagle lands atop the highest lodge pole.  For hours, the eagle cries piercingly, even back in the city.  Hours later a feather brings more writing.  

1. Ill, I collapse in the bedroom of Paula’s government issued home.  The loud thump of bass echoes down the New Pascua streets.  Felipe’s relatives come in to check on me, propping me up with a pillow, covering me with their jackets and blankets.  The room starts shaking and the bed flying.  My hold on this dimension loosens enough to see the veils swing back and forth.  The recounting of the names begins with the old men and continues to the young angels.  Crepe paper unravels from the mesquite crosses and candle wax drips on the Styrofoam plates of dinner rolls, chili stew and beans.  Half alive.  I make it outside to hear the last of the names and see the last of the spirits enjoying their meals, evaporating into the desert dusk.  A smoldering cherry of ash flies across the air.