The grass is gray — the way a saint’s eyes
de-color, vision-blasted, after thirty
desert days. The shrubs are lean, the dirty
lies of worldly pride all stripped to bone.
Her door is there to knock. One old and wise
has guiding words for those who walk alone.
On certain nights, a bluish light escapes
the blackout windows, pulsing crazy streaks.
The chimney channels horrid cries and shrieks.
A tattered silhouette flies round the eaves,
grasping, crushing, rending empty shapes,
her gone-forever children, how she grieves.
The painted sign in front: Your Horoscope.
Love and Marriage, Riches, Loss, and Hope.
Karl E. Stull grew up with kids who were scared of La Llorona, a wailing phantom in Mexican traditions. Today his poems are about places, mostly in Los Angeles — listening for their voices and memories. He also writes the Metaphor Awareness Month blog on WordPress.