The Medium Channels Duende

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.