Don Nadie
walks past the Jesuit Church
where the shoe-shine boys
store their stands at night.
He walks past
the tiny seat where
the gay guys sit
and caress each other
asking the unsuspecting
for unexpected dates.
Nobody asks him
for a match,
for a drink,
for money,
for charity,
for a walk down the alley
to the cheap hotels
The Yalalag witch
doctor sees things
other men don’t see.
He stretches out his hand
and brushes the mosquito
from Don Nadie‘s nose.
“Brother,” he smiles.
“I too have lost the way.”
Don Nadie is the one
who stops the hands
on all the clocks
at midnight.
He’s the one who leaves
this place and comes to this place,
all places being one
Don Nadie thinks
he knows who he is,
but he can no longer
sense his blood in the mirror
as the razor blade draws
its thin red scratch
across the dry husks of his soul.
Don Nadie,
my lookalike, my twin,
stares back at me
from the shop window
and I gaze into his eyes
In the back of the weavers’ shop,
three witches watch us.
One spins the yarn,
one measures the cloth,
one wields
the obsidian knife,
that will one day
sever the thread of our lives:
gimiendo gemelo,
hipócrito rector.
