You were the one I called two-star,
Obsidian-skinned and tiny enough to swallow!
A thousand moons ago you embarked to us.
Trajectories of comets and cataclysms, amid
Asteroids as large as worries: the sound of your
Fantastic flight—the voyage of a xolo’s howl.
Ay, how I could cup you in my ear, chiquito, and
hear all that you’ve seen and have come
To us to impart, correct, heal, illuminate—that drum
That pounds elemental messages like constellations into
The velvety mouth of dawn. I see you still, Citlalin,
A journeyed star, strong enough to
explain the bleakest patches of my own failed eyes.
Arrivals. Arrivals. Infant as wise as the light of an ancient
Life form. Today, I set light to the earth, and cried and tried, yet,
no trumpets to announce you’d left us arrived,
except this hardened conch swollen up like a heart that yowled
in this cavity I’ve known as chest.