An Empire of Darkened Dreams

The Empire of Darkened Dreams


beside the stool where the fat girl sat
on a pile of year-old-newspaper
i see the torn and tattered edge of map
that delineates each kingdom here
in hell.

her rolls of fat are arched in tenement glee --
with a dozen wads of loogie green drying
in the mumu there beneath her thick
empty dead pale arms

her stringy greasy black hair wades down from
stressed scalp to half-way down her short round-edged back
to frame the picture of discontent
and impending happiness stretched thin in an oak box.

I say nothing at the black circles beneath her brown eyes
and around Mexico, her mother's home
and the long beaches her ass could not conquer.
The map of her empire is clear and well defined

like all the parts of hell we never share with one another.
"Mi amor, viene a mí," she mewls and i
can only weep for the war she lost
then sigh for the battle ahead.

"Non hablo espanol, mi amora," I say with the remains of a smile.
then she falls silent with a breath larger than her tits
and says, "¿Habla usted el idioma del amor?"
"No," i said, I failed that too.

Bitterness in the chocolate stains beside her ripe lips
sings to me of the decadance of her once-desmense
and the lovely walks we might have had before the stench
of rotting flesh was stronger than the roses on her table.

"I am fat," she said with a thick accent, "sooo fat."
I knew then the tragedy of milk and cookies, of
deep fried plantains, of childhood and granny panties
"I am sooo fat," she wept

and wept.