Poetry by Raquel Vasquez Gilliland
The Tale of Called Magic
Mami always warned us about called magic. She didn’t let me
and my sisters sit in a circle too close to the full moon. We weren’t allowed to light candles on the 22nd of each month, and we couldn’t
write poems too close to dusk—she said our words could run
off the page and make a big ruckus of things. Sometimes magic just sweeps
you away, though. No matter how many blue-lidded eye
amulets you thread into your bracelets, no matter how many hag
stones you swing on the doorways, no matter how many garlic braids
you hang over the windows. Sometimes magic
just sweeps you away. And I should’ve known from the looks
of that feral sky that it probably wasn’t the best time to visit Mami’s grave. But the girls were aching for another story she used to tell, and I
never felt right about telling those stories too far away.
So I packed up some oranges and we walked on down Magnolia Avenue. Father Jonathan says that death makes us all equal—doesn’t matter
how blue your eyes or how porcelain pale your skin.
God judges us all the same. Papá says death forgot about us Mexicans, though. Otherwise we wouldn’t have to take the sapphire-lined
path through the graveyard. We wouldn’t have to step around
grass so green, it could make an emerald look like dried mud. We wouldn’t have
to pass those polished tombstones, sun-like
in their whiteness, bearing letters and lapis. If death knew Mami,
she’d have her own jewel-encrusted mausoleum bigger and brighter than the tombs
of pharaohs. But instead, we walk by the rich-peoples’
cemetery to get to the Mexican one. To get to where Mami rests.
Mami hadn’t been there very long that July. But her grave was already topped
with knee-high wildflowers. She’s marked
with a river rock. One so big, it took me and both of my sisters
to carry it. It’s smooth and dark, like Mami. We can sit on it and pretend
it’s her lap. My sisters are so little they can both curl up
on that rock, and that’s what they did, especially when I told
Mami’s stories. But that day, they changed their mind on the story. They wanted
to throw the expired herb packets Papá gave us
from his warehouse job up like confetti. Say basil, one would yell.
Basil! Then the toss, the sound of the seeds stirring up a storm. I sat on the river
rock, and before I knew it, the clouds had turned
ink black. Like it was filled with brujas. And I’m my mother’s
daughter. I know a called magic when I see one, and I yelled for the girls
to pick up their trash so we could leave. And then I
noticed we stood in a circle. I noticed dusk was nearing earlier
than usual. And before I could tell them to shut up, one yelled, say parsley.
Parsley! The toss, the stir, the drop of seeds.
The silence.
The air got
real thick.
Like you could toss it over your shoulder, that air, take it home
and make a dress of it. A gown, one that would enchant every man
this side of the Rio Grande. The girls screamed
and we raced one another home. I threw a handful of holy water
out the front door and slammed all the curtains shut. By the time I got them
ready for bed, things felt normal again. I brushed
the little one’s teeth. And for the first time, I told them one
of Mami’s stories without Mami. Next morning, I went to the graveyard
to see what damage had been done.
I could see the parsley even from the entrance of the rich peoples’
cemetery. It was a wild sort of parsley, one that turned blue on the edges
and curled into swirls. It reached my belly button, where
Mami once said connected me to her, her to her mother, and on
and on until the first woman was connected to the earth. It grew only over
my mother’s grave and the one next to her, Sandra
Mendoza, who, at four months old, never woke up from her
mid-morning nap. It only grew between where we three had stood under
that called magic. I had a half a mind to find out exactly
who called that magic down Magnolia Avenue,
but then I saw the hand. At the center of Mami’s grave. Made of parsley leaves.
But thick like flesh. Green like forests.
A hand.
Her
hand.
I could see the crooked of the fourth finger, where her abuelo
had broken it when she served her dinner before his. I could see the slight
raise of the scar from when she scalded herself on the cast-
iron. My heart felt like it was inside of that parsley hand.
I glanced at Sandra’s grave, and when I saw her tiny fingers,
I ran home faster, faster than the work of called magic.
It took me weeks to return. But when I did, I found everything
in its place. The river rock. The parsley. The hands. Mami, is that you?
I whispered, and the hand stretched softly. I touched my
fingertips to hers. I could almost feel a heartbeat, and I wondered
if it was the beat of her gone heart or the earth or the called magic parsley.
The next day I touched my palm to hers. And the next
I let myself lie in the parsley and hold her hand in mine. Mami,
I’m afraid I’ve forgotten the honeycomb color in your eyes. I’m afraid
the girls will forget how you sounded. I’m afraid I’ll forget
the stories. And when I finished speaking, I noticed her hand
was now holding mine. I only told one another person about the called
magic parsley. And after she found out, she spent more
time at the graveyard than me. I think Anna Mendoza even spent
the nights there sometimes, both hands clutching the parsley fingers of
baby Sandra. I suppose everyone else thought the parsley
was some weed. ‘Til September. September brings the season of
death. That’s what Mami always said, anyhow. One of the old ladies visiting
her husband at the rich cemetery saw the parsley.
Maybe she had a witch in her ancestry. I don’t know how else
a called magic would call back to her. Maybe someone in her blood heard it.
She snipped a handful and stewed it with potatoes and
a chicken. After dinner, her whole family slept for three days
straight. And when they woke up, they started speaking in tongues. That’s what
Father Jonathan called it, anyhow. They said they met
the Son of God and he was darker than any Mexican.
They said they met the mother of God and it was she who put each
star in the sky. It sounded alright to me, but the Father
called it wicked, and they took herbicide to the Mexican graveyard.
Sandra’s mami Anna fought it the most. They sprayed her ‘til her skin broke
and she went home smashed all the plates over her sink.
That’s what I heard, anyway. I didn’t know about the herbicide
‘til it was too late. Otherwise, I’d have told Mami about the Son and Mother
of God. Otherwise, I’d have had her touch my hair
and see how long it had gotten. Otherwise, I would have held her hand
once more. But I’m getting ready to go to Anna Mendoza’s house to tell her this:
on my birthday, the parsley flowered.
And I saved each
and every called
magic seed.
Mami always warned us about called magic. She didn’t let me
and my sisters sit in a circle too close to the full moon. We weren’t allowed to light candles on the 22nd of each month, and we couldn’t
write poems too close to dusk—she said our words could run
off the page and make a big ruckus of things. Sometimes magic just sweeps
you away, though. No matter how many blue-lidded eye
amulets you thread into your bracelets, no matter how many hag
stones you swing on the doorways, no matter how many garlic braids
you hang over the windows. Sometimes magic
just sweeps you away. And I should’ve known from the looks
of that feral sky that it probably wasn’t the best time to visit Mami’s grave. But the girls were aching for another story she used to tell, and I
never felt right about telling those stories too far away.
So I packed up some oranges and we walked on down Magnolia Avenue. Father Jonathan says that death makes us all equal—doesn’t matter
how blue your eyes or how porcelain pale your skin.
God judges us all the same. Papá says death forgot about us Mexicans, though. Otherwise we wouldn’t have to take the sapphire-lined
path through the graveyard. We wouldn’t have to step around
grass so green, it could make an emerald look like dried mud. We wouldn’t have
to pass those polished tombstones, sun-like
in their whiteness, bearing letters and lapis. If death knew Mami,
she’d have her own jewel-encrusted mausoleum bigger and brighter than the tombs
of pharaohs. But instead, we walk by the rich-peoples’
cemetery to get to the Mexican one. To get to where Mami rests.
Mami hadn’t been there very long that July. But her grave was already topped
with knee-high wildflowers. She’s marked
with a river rock. One so big, it took me and both of my sisters
to carry it. It’s smooth and dark, like Mami. We can sit on it and pretend
it’s her lap. My sisters are so little they can both curl up
on that rock, and that’s what they did, especially when I told
Mami’s stories. But that day, they changed their mind on the story. They wanted
to throw the expired herb packets Papá gave us
from his warehouse job up like confetti. Say basil, one would yell.
Basil! Then the toss, the sound of the seeds stirring up a storm. I sat on the river
rock, and before I knew it, the clouds had turned
ink black. Like it was filled with brujas. And I’m my mother’s
daughter. I know a called magic when I see one, and I yelled for the girls
to pick up their trash so we could leave. And then I
noticed we stood in a circle. I noticed dusk was nearing earlier
than usual. And before I could tell them to shut up, one yelled, say parsley.
Parsley! The toss, the stir, the drop of seeds.
The silence.
The air got
real thick.
Like you could toss it over your shoulder, that air, take it home
and make a dress of it. A gown, one that would enchant every man
this side of the Rio Grande. The girls screamed
and we raced one another home. I threw a handful of holy water
out the front door and slammed all the curtains shut. By the time I got them
ready for bed, things felt normal again. I brushed
the little one’s teeth. And for the first time, I told them one
of Mami’s stories without Mami. Next morning, I went to the graveyard
to see what damage had been done.
I could see the parsley even from the entrance of the rich peoples’
cemetery. It was a wild sort of parsley, one that turned blue on the edges
and curled into swirls. It reached my belly button, where
Mami once said connected me to her, her to her mother, and on
and on until the first woman was connected to the earth. It grew only over
my mother’s grave and the one next to her, Sandra
Mendoza, who, at four months old, never woke up from her
mid-morning nap. It only grew between where we three had stood under
that called magic. I had a half a mind to find out exactly
who called that magic down Magnolia Avenue,
but then I saw the hand. At the center of Mami’s grave. Made of parsley leaves.
But thick like flesh. Green like forests.
A hand.
Her
hand.
I could see the crooked of the fourth finger, where her abuelo
had broken it when she served her dinner before his. I could see the slight
raise of the scar from when she scalded herself on the cast-
iron. My heart felt like it was inside of that parsley hand.
I glanced at Sandra’s grave, and when I saw her tiny fingers,
I ran home faster, faster than the work of called magic.
It took me weeks to return. But when I did, I found everything
in its place. The river rock. The parsley. The hands. Mami, is that you?
I whispered, and the hand stretched softly. I touched my
fingertips to hers. I could almost feel a heartbeat, and I wondered
if it was the beat of her gone heart or the earth or the called magic parsley.
The next day I touched my palm to hers. And the next
I let myself lie in the parsley and hold her hand in mine. Mami,
I’m afraid I’ve forgotten the honeycomb color in your eyes. I’m afraid
the girls will forget how you sounded. I’m afraid I’ll forget
the stories. And when I finished speaking, I noticed her hand
was now holding mine. I only told one another person about the called
magic parsley. And after she found out, she spent more
time at the graveyard than me. I think Anna Mendoza even spent
the nights there sometimes, both hands clutching the parsley fingers of
baby Sandra. I suppose everyone else thought the parsley
was some weed. ‘Til September. September brings the season of
death. That’s what Mami always said, anyhow. One of the old ladies visiting
her husband at the rich cemetery saw the parsley.
Maybe she had a witch in her ancestry. I don’t know how else
a called magic would call back to her. Maybe someone in her blood heard it.
She snipped a handful and stewed it with potatoes and
a chicken. After dinner, her whole family slept for three days
straight. And when they woke up, they started speaking in tongues. That’s what
Father Jonathan called it, anyhow. They said they met
the Son of God and he was darker than any Mexican.
They said they met the mother of God and it was she who put each
star in the sky. It sounded alright to me, but the Father
called it wicked, and they took herbicide to the Mexican graveyard.
Sandra’s mami Anna fought it the most. They sprayed her ‘til her skin broke
and she went home smashed all the plates over her sink.
That’s what I heard, anyway. I didn’t know about the herbicide
‘til it was too late. Otherwise, I’d have told Mami about the Son and Mother
of God. Otherwise, I’d have had her touch my hair
and see how long it had gotten. Otherwise, I would have held her hand
once more. But I’m getting ready to go to Anna Mendoza’s house to tell her this:
on my birthday, the parsley flowered.
And I saved each
and every called
magic seed.
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Raquel Vasquez Gilliland is a Mexican-American poet, painter and aspiring micro-farmer. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Dark Mountain and Fairy Tale Review. She's most inspired by plants and stones and her family. Her first collection, Dirt and Honey, will be released in March by Green Writers Press.
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