La Llorona mourns the mistreated and the dead;
As the sands run down in the hourglass,
She turns on her mate
In the fetid and pitchy darkness of the Latrine;
And the generation that ate sour grapes and whose teeth are clenched as well
Gives birth to yet another.
Black roses and yellow carnations on the coffin to banish the evil
Would give the properly laid-out abomination
A decent burial.
Let us line the well well.
The water is limpid.
Properly treated, it is poignant with its Chlorine,
But we may worry less about drinking it.
The Latrine will always be too close;
The Village drinks from it.
The children cry now. But
Childhood must end, starting as soon as we are born.
© 2010 by Mark Andrew Holmes.