A Grave is Given Supper Read online

  A GRAVE IS GIVEN SUPPER

  A Grave Is Given Supper

  Mike Soto

  DEEP VELLUM PUBLISHING

  DALLAS, TEXAS

  Deep Vellum Publishing

  3000 Commerce St., Dallas, Texas 75226

  deepvellum.org · @deepvellum

  Deep Vellum is a 501c3 nonprofit literary arts organization

  founded in 2013 with the mission to bring

  the world into conversation through literature.

  Copyright © Mike Soto, 2020

  First edition, 2020

  All rights reserved.

  Support for this publication has been provided in part by grants from the National Endowment for the Arts, the Texas Commission on the Arts, the City of Dallas Office of Arts and Culture’s ArtsActivate program, and the Moody Fund for the Arts:

  ISBNs: 978-1-64605-010-9 (paperback) | 978-1-64605-011-6 (ebook)

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CONTROL NUMBER: 2020932579

  Cover art and interior images by Daniel Gonzalez | printgonzalez.com

  Interior layout and typesetting by Kirby Gann

  Text set in Bembo, a typeface modeled on typefaces cut by Francesco

  Griffo for Aldo Manuzio’s printing of De Aetna in 1495 in Venice.

  Printed in the United States of America

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  CONTENTS

  PART I

  Blank Chapel or, Consuelo’s Mistake

  Topito

  Fue El Estado

  Fog Having Tea with a Graveyard

  Ampersand Kings

  Breaking an Open Window

  First Supper

  Breve Historia

  Topito’s Fate

  Consuelo’s Vision

  Death the Man Who Silvers the Desert at Night

  Everyday Tunnels

  The Dead Women

  [Aluminum children run holding snakeskins up]

  [When the firing squad lines up, honey]

  Mercury Topaz

  Laundry across Balconies or, Deciding to Fold

  Topito’s Yes

  PART II

  [Sixty-eight were found without heads]

  [One moment, the vehicle]

  [At the top of the Ferris wheel, the city]

  [To say I love you put a bird on a wire]

  [Looking to get Consuelo’s name written]

  Instructions or, Consuelo’s Yes

  [The first time I saw Death her dress]

  [A dung beetle climbed out of the dead]

  [Got out of the Datsun, found myself at]

  Paloma Negra or, Topito’s Mistake

  Consuelo Gone

  One Day a River Won’t Stop Leaving My Mouth

  [Let the rifle sleep & take the path]

  The Wall Commonly Known as the Brow of God

  Death the Man Always in the Pink Corner Store Buying Nothing

  Consuelo’s Promise

  Missing (Consuelo’s List)

  The Next Life

  Hourglass with Bat Wings

  PART III

  [The sadness of a fully dressed man walking]

  Consuelo’s Shawl

  The Invention or, Consuelo’s Explanation of the Third Eye

  Dressing up a Drug Lord

  Paloma Negra

  Square inside a Circle

  Death the Greedy Politician

  The Useful Rituals

  Untitled (Tunnel with Horse & Rider)

  Topito’s Poise

  Consuelo in the Poppy Fields

  A Few Visions (Topito’s List)

  Malverde Chapel or, Consuelo’s Revenge

  Memento Mori in Three Exponential Ifs

  Death the Coppersmith

  Acknowledgments

  Part I

  Blank Chapel or, Consuelo’s Mistake

  The empty doorway cried escape to her

  by name, so she took the invitation

  to step in, unwrap the rain from her face

  & wait for the storm to pay its sudden visit.

  But seeing the vandalized walls, a message

  started then smeared, the mad steering

  of a hand thru paint—to Consuelo the ruined

  whitewash was blindness smeared into sight.

  A rage she shouldn’t have recognized, the one

  house of God she shouldn’t have rushed into.

  Floors recently laid down, walls primed just

  the day before. With the bust of Malverde

  set to arrive with the front door

  that afternoon. Nothing to stop her from

  getting closer, tasting, first with her finger,

  the glimmer in the grit. Nobody to keep her

  from gliding her tongue across the wall, deciding

  salt from the moon—what rushed leaves

  & laughter up the ladder of her spine, & no one

  with her in the silence after someone cleared

  their throat. When, at once, she knew the mud

  her bare feet dragged, the shawl she let fall

  on the floor, that she would be pulled out

  by much more than her hair, turning

  to find the faces like a firing squad armed

  with blanks, with blame, with stares.

  Topito

  In the scorched sands outside

  of Sumidero, I buried my first toy

  & a picture of my mother, said

  goodbye to my father who left

  determined to get across the wall

  commonly known as the brow

  of God. After that, the horizon I

  gazed at for a grip on what do now,

  next, for the rest of my life, gave me

  nothing. All I could do was sit,

  duck my head into the darkness

  of my held knees for what seemed

  like hours, enough to fall half-asleep

  & dream a section of the wall’s shadow

  came over & clocked a hat into place

  on my head. I woke & looked up,

  but the monolith was gone. I stood

  & scanned the horizon, spotted

  a horse & a rider. That’s when I knew

  the dream was real. As fast as I could

  I ran in their direction. The rider,

  a man in a snakeskin vest, slowed

  down & told me, Topito, your hat is all

  black so the brim & the shadow it casts

  will always be confused. Now a way

  to go unseen is yours, & the inward

  journey possible, now you start

  seeing how the flesh gets tamed.

  Fue El Estado

  In the beginning there was murder, & out

  of murder shadows & barking ran up

  to read ciphers on walls, cold-blooded

  creatures plotted their revenge behind

  smoke. Under pointy brims names

  crossed out from grocery lists, fates

  determined by the jeweled hands

  of a father who landed his firstborn

  into a pair of alligator boots

  by the age of five. Birds reassembled

  on the first lines between poles after

  shots were fired into a Mercury Topaz.

  In that silence that’s always been the silence

  most alive. Mindless bodies, armless minds,

  tattooed Marys over scarred wrists,

  R.I.P. murals for miles. A shopping cart

  full of prayer candles for students not

  killed, b
ut handed over, not disappeared,

  but missing still. Gossip tangled up with

  truth from the start. Turf wars over which

  version of time would survive, mothers

  bleeding from blown-out windows,

  sons deaf now for life. Revenge invented

  because justice was not. The first day

  a table filled with half-empty cups,

  set up to be snatched by streets

  of desperate runners even then.

  Fog Having Tea with a Graveyard

  We caught the tombstones sleeping, or so

  we thought. The deeper we walked we knew

  the sky had dropped gown to ankles

  & the cemetery had company locked in.

  Time woven out, minutes into moments,

  seconds into the sheer white cloth of a cloud

  we now feared to part. The tombs no longer

  a shortcut to the other side of town where

  water was our mirror for skipping stones.

  Even the dismembered statues that became

  our trophies—Mary Whose Hand was Swallowed

  by Her Heart, Our Lady of the Nose Bitten Off

  for Spilling Blossoms from Her Robe—seemed

  to conspire with a lust that could exist above

  the moss for this morning only. And when

  you dared me—steal the pieces that lay broken

  at the feet of the Headless Angel with a Sword—

  that only gave Godspeed to the mischief

  already sparked in my mind. But leaving

  made that weight come alive on my back,

  dragging me down, making me stagger

  to the space where the walls crowned

  with broken bottle shards paused, & stepped

  on the same grave as always to climb out,

  but this time barely, with what was starting

  to weigh as much as a man on my shoulders.

  Ampersand Kings

  The stones we skipped, cymbals

  struck for every step we walked

  them on the water, the ringing trails

  & turns we took dedicating throws—

  this one for El Mero León Del Oscuro,

  & Gusano del Cielo, & Nariz de Estrella,

  this one for Conejo Negro, & Chupatierra,

  & Chapo the first Topo of drug lords—

  & kept tossing until we saw nothing

  but silver on the belly of the stream,

  until the lack of light became a lack

  we unlearned, & we were ampersand

  kings, & when one of our throws ramped

  the water to reach the other side, the other

  side became possible, lit with the eyes

  of shadows that started barking

  or laughing—we couldn’t tell, & always

  assumed the golden throw a stolen

  piece of our broken angel’s head.

  Breaking an Open Window

  Somewhere in crowds that scowl

  in the sun & wait for the procession

  to pass, Death is the hired gun who

  follows me: a stranger whose stare

  is careful: a thief whose patience remains

  unhatched, even as tubas thump by

  & trumpets seize the air

  with a flourish. A criminal disguised

  by the sidewalks of people screaming

  to get under fists of money thrown

  out of SUVs: a teenager pretending

  to be impressed by the bust of Malverde,

  immaculately decorated on the hood

  of a Black Bronco. Side-glancing to see

  when I leave: the fat man who manages

  to get ahead of me, peel an orange on the corner,

  & listen to my keys rattle for the dead

  weight of entry while gushing slices

  into his crooked teeth: a vendor who

  followed me to know the size of the coin

  I’ll swallow before I step thru

  the door. Always a half-second ahead

  of me, I catch only shadows of mice

  risking the street when I turn, only smoke

  waiting to escape my grasp. A question

  that won’t let me sit down—a trap to lure me

  back out when streetlamps kindle & zone

  the night, set by the shadow

  of a stranger for no reason crossing

  to my side of the street. Turning to walk

  the other way, I found both—the gift & curse

  chasing me into a torn building, up

  every flight to have me against the wall.

  To hear me break a window with the bone

  that begged out of my body.

  First Supper

  A question happened when I was a boy—a night.

  Rows of cups nailed by their handles to a wall, each

  one eavesdropping on wind describing the size of maize

  outside.

  I couldn’t escape the table. A dream replaced

  the hunger in my stomach, a yearning to be filled

  from the bottom up with the wind

  of a Yes. I couldn’t escape

  my chair. I had no answer for the table

  set with blindfolds

  instead of napkins. One woman shifted food

  to the side of her mouth that had teeth, a trapped princess

  glared, others hissed above the stove. No one

  could see me.

  Tortillas torn in half over mud, the table

  getting satisfied, the gossip getting louder, every plate empty

  except mine. I wanted to run, at least to press

  my ear against the wall. But only my mother

  could ask, what’s wrong? Everyone’s attention

  trapped me for an answer. In revenge

  I told the truth, me estoy muriendo de amor. The table broke

  into laughter because I was too young to say a thing like that.

  Breve Historia

  Consuelo’s mother calls her a slug

  in a salt storm, writhing on the floor,

  sliding thru legs of chairs, their desire

  to be set on fire Consuelo felt too clearly

  to be called a normal child. Only after

  someone hoisted her above their shoulders,

  offered her up to the moon, would she

  calm down. Her mother disappeared

  after the second straight week she refused

  to wear shoes. All Consuelo wanted from

  the moon, if not a silver dress, at least

  a thread to follow. If not a dance with death,

  a tunnel connecting her future to a roof full

  of rabbits. But anger became a house she

  couldn’t sleep in, hallways had the voice

  of an absence going thru them. Consuelo

  lured continuously to the garden where

  a birdbath knitted itself to sleep.

  Topito’s Fate

  The wind of that dream lasted a horizon

  of years in my stomach, leaving a lone tree

  bent in the gesture of listening. That’s why

  my hand flickered at the dud key of an

  accordion in my sleep, why the mood

  of that dream took enough steps

  into reality, reached the door, & arrived at

  breakfast, making my fist a bird too heavy

  to fly from the table, tipping over a sunlit

  glass of water instead. Those broken pieces

  on the floor the coins that bought me

  a block of ice, for years the gun frozen

  at its center had my name engraved

  on its handle.

  Consuelo’s Vision

  Famous—not for walking a fake

  distance on his hands, since sleeves

  slept empty from his shoulders,

  & not for using the cigar stubs

  of his legs to waddle like a fish
/>
  to his spot. On the sidewalk,

  Consuelo sees him, a stump

  of a man, surrendered to the void

  of his hat, for the glimmer of a coin,

  or the feather of a bill. Known

  to everyone as an island to leave

  undiscovered. Dividing people

  in a blur for work, children in

  face masks, vendors with

  trays of sweetbread balanced

  on their heads. Held hostage by his

  body, but daring Consuelo to guess

  who or what brought him: the need

  to send a message, a wheelbarrow,

  a vengeful wish granted—with

  the cracked mirror of his gaze

  which kept healing until she was

  close enough to ask him, Did I?

  If you think his answer was the coin

  Consuelo had to swallow she’ll say,

  no, his smile. Mischievous, a smirk in

  the dark, a marble in an empty drawer.

  Death the Man Who Silvers the Desert at Night

  Practiced my aim, afternoons spent

  on the sides of roads, trying to shoot

  down the violet pears that sat on pads

  of cacti, undamaged. Several rode

  intact in my passenger seat the night

  someone using a mirror to flash moonlight

  gave me the excuse to do in darkness

  what the horizon dared me to do

  my whole life: pull over, abandon my car,

  & walk the distance between the road

  & hills. Too far to turn back, the direction

  back to my vehicle lost. Just as I resolved

  to keep going, a black-clad figure dissolved

  out of the dark, tucked a pistol into his belt,

  growling it’s a sin to have waited this long,

  but I remember thinking this is exactly

  my time. As we walked in a circle, I felt

  the opposition of magnets between us,

  & when I shot snake eyes into his chest,

  a sadness rose inside me but not surprise.

  I only knew for certain I was seeing

  the right signals, taking the right path.

  Everyday Tunnels

  Explain the road held hostage by

  the three-legged waltz of a dog,

  twisting milk in his grin—say