My Book of the Dead

New Poems

Ana Castillo

• Publisher: High Road Books
• Year: 2021
• Print ISBN: 9780826363190
• eBook ISBN: 9780826363206
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Poetry
• Index: Literature

For more than thirty years, Ana Castillo has been mesmerizing and inspiring readers from all over the world with her passionate and fiery poetry and prose. Now the original Xicanista is back to her first literary love, poetry, and to interrogating the social and political upheaval the world has seen over the last decade. Angry and sad, playful and wise, Castillo delves into the bitter side of our world—the environmental crisis, COVID-19, ongoing systemic racism and violence, children in detention camps, and the Trump presidency—and emerges stronger from exploring these troubling affairs of today. Drawings by Castillo created over the past five years are featured throughout the collection and further showcase her connection to her work as both a writer and a visual artist. My Book of the Dead is a remarkable collection that features a poet at the height of her craft.

PART I

A Storm upon Us

In memory of John Trudell, written upon the occasion of his crossing over

A storm is coming. It is on the horizon.

It has traveled far, fast, wide, and

taken much in tow,the storm

infused with lies and nitrogen. Water, air, ground—

infused, our fruit and animals infused,

our minds infused with lies and nitrogen. We’re dumb struck,

believe ourselves smart when we are, instead, confused.

The tricksters counted on our being caught unawares.

They knew our selfishness, greed. Most of all, fears.

The storm approaches. (Can you hear it?

Nine hundred and ninety-nine hoof-like vibrations beat against our eardrums &

we remain indifferent.) We have our things gathered. Our children seem fine. We always rebound.

The storm comes and goes, returns. Next time, harder. We don’t even bother

with shelters. We give it new names, each time, further fire and rain.

We mourn.

We start again. It could have been you or me, we say, dying

in public beneath a baton’s blows falling amid the spray of a sniper’s bullets,

but it wasn’t. We go on.

Disaster has happened to someone else.

We venture out and buy more. We take more. We discard. We pillage the earth.

The storms take sinister forms, go by isms, neo, and post-hyphenations. Be afraid, leaders of the faceless enemy, warn. Beware.

Be aware

when you travel we cannot protect you. We will be vigilant of your whereabouts.

Our watchful eye will know your life. Long lines to survive much less thrive lie

before you. You’ll feel shame like in naked dreams but worse because we, in fact,

are watching you. We will make sure you don’t question.

And when the storm is upon you, when it has destroyed your homes and your children are not fine and your dreams of golden roses and bright days are nowhere but in the pages of a storybook, we will be content in our heavens eating peeled

grapes, sipping fine wines from our vineyards of abundance,

sitting on our thrones,

new gods. We’ll smile down upon you,

our creation of ruin,

pick our teeth with your bones.

Tell Me to Live for Something

Tell me to live for something—

to live for you, let’s say;

see next spring;

or to do mundane things, again.

Say why it would not be prudent

to leave . . .

this world, I mean.

Let’s not be maudlin,

much less trite.

I don’t say lightly

this is a hard time.

Tell me, love, new friend,

why you think we, meaning all,

shouldn’t find what is in motion,

not an onslaught of indifference?

If all that made countries civil,

societies tolerable, even pleasant,

now and again,

cultures enriching,...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Half title
• Title
• Copyright
• Dedication
• Contents
• Acknowledgments
• Part I
• Part II
• Part III
• Notes