I am no more than a secretary of the invisible thing.
—Czeslaw Milosz
La dueña is the real
mistress of the house,
mischief, a diãno
disturbing the peace
under our skin.
She rolls naked
in the snow, white
fire, barking black
sounds like birth.
She infests anthills
and bedroom walls,
a succubus, keening.
As imp and pixie,
she sports horns
and wings, or wings
and barbs, smells
like blood and loam
and luck, both good
and wild. We glimpse
ourselves in her.
She’s a djin named
Qarinah, a siren
singing the blues.
She is Eutychia,
borne of Nyx, qi
and brio and joie
de vivre. She’s Lilith,
a lamia sucking
blood, queen of night.
She lurks, steals
babies by charm
or spell, howls
at the crowning
of the moon.
She is duende, the mad
poet in the attic,
who sleepwalks
through trapdoors,
scribbling prophecies.
She is flamenco
incarnate, a bailaora
swishing her skirts,
drumming her heels.
She climbs in
through the bottoms
of our feet,
wells our eyes,
her castanets pulsing
live, ululating
off the empty page.