A GRAVE IS GIVEN SUPPER
A Grave Is Given Supper
Mike Soto
DEEP VELLUM PUBLISHING
DALLAS, TEXAS
Deep Vellum Publishing
3000 Commerce St., Dallas, Texas 75226
deepvellum.org · @deepvellum
Deep Vellum is a 501c3 nonprofit literary arts organization
founded in 2013 with the mission to bring
the world into conversation through literature.
Copyright © Mike Soto, 2020
First edition, 2020
All rights reserved.
Support for this publication has been provided in part by grants from the National Endowment for the Arts, the Texas Commission on the Arts, the City of Dallas Office of Arts and Culture’s ArtsActivate program, and the Moody Fund for the Arts:
ISBNs: 978-1-64605-010-9 (paperback) | 978-1-64605-011-6 (ebook)
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CONTROL NUMBER: 2020932579
Cover art and interior images by Daniel Gonzalez | printgonzalez.com
Interior layout and typesetting by Kirby Gann
Text set in Bembo, a typeface modeled on typefaces cut by Francesco
Griffo for Aldo Manuzio’s printing of De Aetna in 1495 in Venice.
Printed in the United States of America
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
CONTENTS
PART I
Blank Chapel or, Consuelo’s Mistake
Topito
Fue El Estado
Fog Having Tea with a Graveyard
Ampersand Kings
Breaking an Open Window
First Supper
Breve Historia
Topito’s Fate
Consuelo’s Vision
Death the Man Who Silvers the Desert at Night
Everyday Tunnels
The Dead Women
[Aluminum children run holding snakeskins up]
[When the firing squad lines up, honey]
Mercury Topaz
Laundry across Balconies or, Deciding to Fold
Topito’s Yes
PART II
[Sixty-eight were found without heads]
[One moment, the vehicle]
[At the top of the Ferris wheel, the city]
[To say I love you put a bird on a wire]
[Looking to get Consuelo’s name written]
Instructions or, Consuelo’s Yes
[The first time I saw Death her dress]
[A dung beetle climbed out of the dead]
[Got out of the Datsun, found myself at]
Paloma Negra or, Topito’s Mistake
Consuelo Gone
One Day a River Won’t Stop Leaving My Mouth
[Let the rifle sleep & take the path]
The Wall Commonly Known as the Brow of God
Death the Man Always in the Pink Corner Store Buying Nothing
Consuelo’s Promise
Missing (Consuelo’s List)
The Next Life
Hourglass with Bat Wings
PART III
[The sadness of a fully dressed man walking]
Consuelo’s Shawl
The Invention or, Consuelo’s Explanation of the Third Eye
Dressing up a Drug Lord
Paloma Negra
Square inside a Circle
Death the Greedy Politician
The Useful Rituals
Untitled (Tunnel with Horse & Rider)
Topito’s Poise
Consuelo in the Poppy Fields
A Few Visions (Topito’s List)
Malverde Chapel or, Consuelo’s Revenge
Memento Mori in Three Exponential Ifs
Death the Coppersmith
Acknowledgments
Part I
Blank Chapel or, Consuelo’s Mistake
The empty doorway cried escape to her
by name, so she took the invitation
to step in, unwrap the rain from her face
& wait for the storm to pay its sudden visit.
But seeing the vandalized walls, a message
started then smeared, the mad steering
of a hand thru paint—to Consuelo the ruined
whitewash was blindness smeared into sight.
A rage she shouldn’t have recognized, the one
house of God she shouldn’t have rushed into.
Floors recently laid down, walls primed just
the day before. With the bust of Malverde
set to arrive with the front door
that afternoon. Nothing to stop her from
getting closer, tasting, first with her finger,
the glimmer in the grit. Nobody to keep her
from gliding her tongue across the wall, deciding
salt from the moon—what rushed leaves
& laughter up the ladder of her spine, & no one
with her in the silence after someone cleared
their throat. When, at once, she knew the mud
her bare feet dragged, the shawl she let fall
on the floor, that she would be pulled out
by much more than her hair, turning
to find the faces like a firing squad armed
with blanks, with blame, with stares.
Topito
In the scorched sands outside
of Sumidero, I buried my first toy
& a picture of my mother, said
goodbye to my father who left
determined to get across the wall
commonly known as the brow
of God. After that, the horizon I
gazed at for a grip on what do now,
next, for the rest of my life, gave me
nothing. All I could do was sit,
duck my head into the darkness
of my held knees for what seemed
like hours, enough to fall half-asleep
& dream a section of the wall’s shadow
came over & clocked a hat into place
on my head. I woke & looked up,
but the monolith was gone. I stood
& scanned the horizon, spotted
a horse & a rider. That’s when I knew
the dream was real. As fast as I could
I ran in their direction. The rider,
a man in a snakeskin vest, slowed
down & told me, Topito, your hat is all
black so the brim & the shadow it casts
will always be confused. Now a way
to go unseen is yours, & the inward
journey possible, now you start
seeing how the flesh gets tamed.
Fue El Estado
In the beginning there was murder, & out
of murder shadows & barking ran up
to read ciphers on walls, cold-blooded
creatures plotted their revenge behind
smoke. Under pointy brims names
crossed out from grocery lists, fates
determined by the jeweled hands
of a father who landed his firstborn
into a pair of alligator boots
by the age of five. Birds reassembled
on the first lines between poles after
shots were fired into a Mercury Topaz.
In that silence that’s always been the silence
most alive. Mindless bodies, armless minds,
tattooed Marys over scarred wrists,
R.I.P. murals for miles. A shopping cart
full of prayer candles for students not
killed, b
ut handed over, not disappeared,
but missing still. Gossip tangled up with
truth from the start. Turf wars over which
version of time would survive, mothers
bleeding from blown-out windows,
sons deaf now for life. Revenge invented
because justice was not. The first day
a table filled with half-empty cups,
set up to be snatched by streets
of desperate runners even then.
Fog Having Tea with a Graveyard
We caught the tombstones sleeping, or so
we thought. The deeper we walked we knew
the sky had dropped gown to ankles
& the cemetery had company locked in.
Time woven out, minutes into moments,
seconds into the sheer white cloth of a cloud
we now feared to part. The tombs no longer
a shortcut to the other side of town where
water was our mirror for skipping stones.
Even the dismembered statues that became
our trophies—Mary Whose Hand was Swallowed
by Her Heart, Our Lady of the Nose Bitten Off
for Spilling Blossoms from Her Robe—seemed
to conspire with a lust that could exist above
the moss for this morning only. And when
at the feet of the Headless Angel with a Sword—
that only gave Godspeed to the mischief
already sparked in my mind. But leaving
made that weight come alive on my back,
dragging me down, making me stagger
to the space where the walls crowned
with broken bottle shards paused, & stepped
on the same grave as always to climb out,
but this time barely, with what was starting
to weigh as much as a man on my shoulders.
Ampersand Kings
The stones we skipped, cymbals
struck for every step we walked
them on the water, the ringing trails
& turns we took dedicating throws—
this one for El Mero León Del Oscuro,
& Gusano del Cielo, & Nariz de Estrella,
this one for Conejo Negro, & Chupatierra,
& Chapo the first Topo of drug lords—
& kept tossing until we saw nothing
but silver on the belly of the stream,
until the lack of light became a lack
we unlearned, & we were ampersand
kings, & when one of our throws ramped
the water to reach the other side, the other
side became possible, lit with the eyes
of shadows that started barking
or laughing—we couldn’t tell, & always
assumed the golden throw a stolen
piece of our broken angel’s head.
Breaking an Open Window
Somewhere in crowds that scowl
in the sun & wait for the procession
to pass, Death is the hired gun who
follows me: a stranger whose stare
is careful: a thief whose patience remains
unhatched, even as tubas thump by
& trumpets seize the air
with a flourish. A criminal disguised
by the sidewalks of people screaming
to get under fists of money thrown
out of SUVs: a teenager pretending
to be impressed by the bust of Malverde,
immaculately decorated on the hood
of a Black Bronco. Side-glancing to see
when I leave: the fat man who manages
to get ahead of me, peel an orange on the corner,
& listen to my keys rattle for the dead
weight of entry while gushing slices
into his crooked teeth: a vendor who
followed me to know the size of the coin
I’ll swallow before I step thru
the door. Always a half-second ahead
of me, I catch only shadows of mice
risking the street when I turn, only smoke
waiting to escape my grasp. A question
that won’t let me sit down—a trap to lure me
back out when streetlamps kindle & zone
the night, set by the shadow
of a stranger for no reason crossing
to my side of the street. Turning to walk
the other way, I found both—the gift & curse
chasing me into a torn building, up
every flight to have me against the wall.
To hear me break a window with the bone
that begged out of my body.
First Supper
A question happened when I was a boy—a night.
Rows of cups nailed by their handles to a wall, each
one eavesdropping on wind describing the size of maize
outside.
I couldn’t escape the table. A dream replaced
the hunger in my stomach, a yearning to be filled
from the bottom up with the wind
of a Yes. I couldn’t escape
my chair. I had no answer for the table
set with blindfolds
instead of napkins. One woman shifted food
to the side of her mouth that had teeth, a trapped princess
glared, others hissed above the stove. No one
could see me.
Tortillas torn in half over mud, the table
getting satisfied, the gossip getting louder, every plate empty
except mine. I wanted to run, at least to press
my ear against the wall. But only my mother
could ask, what’s wrong? Everyone’s attention
trapped me for an answer. In revenge
I told the truth, me estoy muriendo de amor. The table broke
into laughter because I was too young to say a thing like that.
Breve Historia
in a salt storm, writhing on the floor,
sliding thru legs of chairs, their desire
to be set on fire Consuelo felt too clearly
to be called a normal child. Only after
someone hoisted her above their shoulders,
offered her up to the moon, would she
calm down. Her mother disappeared
after the second straight week she refused
to wear shoes. All Consuelo wanted from
the moon, if not a silver dress, at least
a thread to follow. If not a dance with death,
a tunnel connecting her future to a roof full
of rabbits. But anger became a house she
couldn’t sleep in, hallways had the voice
of an absence going thru them. Consuelo
lured continuously to the garden where
a birdbath knitted itself to sleep.
Topito’s Fate
The wind of that dream lasted a horizon
of years in my stomach, leaving a lone tree
bent in the gesture of listening. That’s why
my hand flickered at the dud key of an
accordion in my sleep, why the mood
of that dream took enough steps
into reality, reached the door, & arrived at
breakfast, making my fist a bird too heavy
to fly from the table, tipping over a sunlit
glass of water instead. Those broken pieces
on the floor the coins that bought me
a block of ice, for years the gun frozen
at its center had my name engraved
on its handle.
Consuelo’s Vision
Famous—not for walking a fake
distance on his hands, since sleeves
slept empty from his shoulders,
& not for using the cigar stubs
of his legs to waddle like a fish
to his spot. On the sidewalk,
Consuelo sees him, a stump
of a man, surrendered to the void
of his hat, for the glimmer of a coin,
or the feather of a bill. Known
to everyone as an island to leave
undiscovered. Dividing people
in a blur for work, children in
face masks, vendors with
trays of sweetbread balanced
on their heads. Held hostage by his
body, but daring Consuelo to guess
who or what brought him: the need
to send a message, a wheelbarrow,
a vengeful wish granted—with
the cracked mirror of his gaze
which kept healing until she was
close enough to ask him, Did I?
If you think his answer was the coin
Consuelo had to swallow she’ll say,
no, his smile. Mischievous, a smirk in
the dark, a marble in an empty drawer.
Death the Man Who Silvers the Desert at Night
Practiced my aim, afternoons spent
on the sides of roads, trying to shoot
down the violet pears that sat on pads
of cacti, undamaged. Several rode
intact in my passenger seat the night
someone using a mirror to flash moonlight
gave me the excuse to do in darkness
what the horizon dared me to do
my whole life: pull over, abandon my car,
& walk the distance between the road
& hills. Too far to turn back, the direction
back to my vehicle lost. Just as I resolved
to keep going, a black-clad figure dissolved
out of the dark, tucked a pistol into his belt,
growling it’s a sin to have waited this long,
but I remember thinking this is exactly
my time. As we walked in a circle, I felt
the opposition of magnets between us,
& when I shot snake eyes into his chest,
a sadness rose inside me but not surprise.
I only knew for certain I was seeing
the right signals, taking the right path.
Everyday Tunnels
Explain the road held hostage by
the three-legged waltz of a dog,
twisting milk in his grin—say