Excerpt From the Americ Book of the Dead

The old woman’s body on a platform that fills the cave, pallid skin, leathered face, lower lip stretched up over the upper, sutured in place with a skinned twig, eyes sewn shut with purple thread. Naked body covered in filthy gauze. Dead or sleeping.

The post-natal mother on her side on the floor, writhing and moaning. The infant on its back beside her, flailing limbs like an upturned insect. Trying its body on for size. Trying to break free.

Thirteen black-robed and bald androgynes aligned against the wall, humming. Facing her, the mother, the old woman, the newly dead, the sleeping dead, the baby. Thirteen voice boxes droning the unknown frequency of a forgotten tune.

The Prince of Dark, a man unseen, behind a screen, preaching, muttering indecipherable secrets. The smell of lava and smoke. He is not there.

I am a silent witness.

The midwife returns, carrying an abalone shell, pink, green, blue, nacre, mother of pearl. She places the shell on the old woman’s body. Pulls a vial from her grey folds, drinks from it, pours the rest on the floor.

I am afraid.

The mother reaches up, grabs my hand, pulls me down to lay on top of her. I am straddling her with hands and knees on the dirt floor. She reaches around my neck with…