Oh Tlazōlteōtl
POETRY
Oh Tlazōlteōtl
I wanted to climb inside the great bathtub with you
But they have moved it from the outside to the in
and now there are people watching
So we will have to clean ourselves with dirty water
Tlazōlteōtl tells us to rub some dirt in the wound
She eats sin, reveres filth and revels in the black fertile earth
His burden was not his dirt, but his gleaming innocence
All the showers he had taken to wash himself clean
and it works well in this age of appearances
He is clean and upright and forgiven
He will not go to Tlazōlteōtl with arms outstretched, dripping grime
Saying I could not help myself
Please help me
He will not go because he does not know he needs to go
And my heart breaks for him, despite mys-elf
He does not know how far from dry land he really is
His vessel so free of heavy burdens and so clean
He doesn't know that travelling light is the heaviest kind of misunderstanding
And when the wave comes, he will have no one to help him bail
And so I must go to her
For the both us, lugging his burden along with mine
His is a viscous liquid that poisons as it cleans
Heavier than mine, but in a better container
Mine is coming apart at the seams
And needs to be held together, just right
I have the knack of it, and usually people to help
But today I carry it alone, and it leaves a trail of fresh compost
Glistening along the track
It gets lighter as I go
I am surprised by the cleaning
She washes me down with earth and soot and fronds of fern
She takes my bag from me, looks inside and laughs
Some spills out on the ground and the women collect it in their palms
And put it in a pot where the flower will grow
She takes his bag from my other hand
its weight is evenly distributed, but somehow harder to hold
She looks inside and sighs
And begins syphoning out little portions into earthen cups
Which the women pass around
They begin to sing
They imbibe the clear viscous liquid, and it makes them retch but they keep singing
Round and round the cups are passed
Filled again and again with a minute dose
More women arrive and take a cup
Adding their voices to the song
There is no purging
They keep it down
All is drunk and the vessel now empty, so sturdy and modern is taken to be buried
It will not decompose
But the earth will cover it
I am given to understand, he has more such bags to carry
That they are waiting for him at the gate
For now, he walks unhindered,
unawares
I ask if I have the capacity to forgive him
Tlazōlteōtl just looks me and shrugs
We can offer it up
We will see what gets mixed in the pail and what gets distilled out
You have done your part by coming
She hands me back my bag
The one I have the knack of
Still fairly full
And smiles
I set off a little lighter
Offering prayers for his forgiveness, along with the compost that spills out like breadcrumbs as I go
Tlazōlteōtl and the women at my back
Singing me onwards
[Sincere apologies for my less than perfect pronunciation of Tlazōlteōtl. This poem was meant with the upmost respect and came as result of a pack of goddess cards I was gifted and the fact that for while Tlazōlteōtl was the card I pulled almost every time, for weeks on end. In a pack of 44 this seemed statistically significant so I began to read about her and she began to appear in my dreams. So I wrote a poem for her, for me, about her, about me, about my dream. It was meant with utter sincerity, wonder and awe. I do not claim to be an expert on her, far from it but I did have this strange interaction/visitation with/from her for a time that felt like it meant something, culminating in the next time I looked at my cards, she had a droplet of water just below her eye. A perfect tear, with no water in the vicinity that could have caused it. You may not believe me, (see photographic evidence below ; P) but it happened. I had heard of Virgin Marys weeping. Perhaps other idols weep too. Perhaps not, but I am choosing to believe that, as a friend of mine surmised, Tlazōlteōtl was moved]
To read more such poems please subscribe to my Substack below
