On my stove a pot of Mexican hot chocolate 
simmers, cinnamon & vanilla milk accented 

with cacao, cayenne & chili. A mocha film 
sears the sides like a waterlogged map, or what 

remains of mud that’s been splattered on walls 
after heavy rains. The spicy drink coats 

my throat, warms my insides like a fired bowl, 
feet dancing over coals. I’m as alive as 

Ezhuahuacatl, the Aztec prince, or the red rock 
of my skin that scorches the photographer’s lens.

With every sip, I strive to be stamped by pain 
& pleasure together, like scrap metal, 

wedge-shaped, impressed by official markings, 
hammered on an anvil with the weight 

of a lion’s head or leader’s crown. I’m not 
a harpy that feeds on others as punishment. 

I prefer that others feed on me, transform
me into a wind that carries itself into oblivion 

while my face remains soft & feminine, 
lips rouged & kerosened. I seek pleasure 

through taste, my tongue a swirling serpent 
that does not hiss or protest. Outside, the waters 

have subsided, streets silent & slick. I'm wetter 
than the hours & the walls I’ve climbed 

to sip wine, a barometer for weather, whether 
or not I am partnered or robed. I flow the same 

way that I smooth out folded clothes
or brush the powdered burn on my lips. 

Like a poem, the liquid returns to feed me 
again & again, long after the mixture has cooled.