by Sally Jo Sorensen
If you are murdered you can bet I'll tell the world
you made me love Lucha Libre when you played the rudo
and you surrendered a técnicos soul behind the dive
your boss loves on the south side of Washington Avenue --When you lay your brown belt in the alley I took it anyway
and wore it home though it clashed with my black linen clothes,
contempt and desire pair, incredible even months later
now that I lift my mask, walk this bare-faced path awayfrom the ring. But the belt is still mine, and your eyes still brown
glistening in streetlights of a Minneapolis winter's fled
for fear of you and the stories you held over our heads
like black shadows lifted from blue, my El Santo whose face I
still don't know.
Wowie! I don't know what's really going on but I certainly believe it! I have small French and less Spanish, so can only make guesses. Lost love, broken heart, clay feet on idol, whatever, it hurts and echoes in this poem of a saint/leader/feared figure. I love the echoes and subtle rhymings, the determination to persist in love and loyalty here. Only you, Sally Jo.
Posted by: Heather Miller | 01/10/2012 at 06:35 AM
I think you are doing quite well, darling.
A very funny journalist friend has imparted an affection for Mexican wrestling (Lucha Libre) and the imagery is drawn from that ritualized combat, especially the "luchas de apuestas" ("matches with wagers")in which the wrestlers risk unmasking or another punishment. "Máscara contra retiro" (mask or retirement) is one such wager.
Posted by: Sally Jo Sorensen | 01/10/2012 at 07:33 AM
I actually got the mask image, Zorro, Lone Ranger, et al but failed to pick up on the wrestling. I was thinking more in terms of street fighting. God, what fascinating material!
Posted by: Heather Miller | 01/11/2012 at 06:46 AM
A love poem, yes?
Posted by: Yara Delinquent | 06/10/2012 at 07:58 PM