Las Posadas at Que Pasa - Lucille Sambo

With our hands intertwined we walked in the frosty night,

our feet crunching the left of tortilla leaves from autumn

and I remember you opened the door to Que Pasa

and my heart began to thaw, waters flowed from my skin,

seeped through the floor, and you told me

that there was a woman, whose specialty was cocktails that turned

into gold the moment they reached the throat, I took a bet and gaped at

you drinking until your heart was filled with mercury,

there beside me, you were beside yourself, but there she was,

the Lady I had been eyeing, with a vihuela on her waist, caroled next to me,

her eyes in mine, and only stopped when her string had broken.

I could not tell her that I had in-fact not understood a single word

she had chanted. That was when you held my hand

and said, “This is not a test, or a drill.” Your eyes glittered like pixie dust,

and I asked you if you had noticed that the Lady had not worn shoes. You

said that her music kept her feet warm and that just like Joseph and Mary,

Que Pasa was her own Bethlehem where she gives birth to entrancing music,

hailing the scores of journeys we would take, in search of something

like Bethlehem and nirvana. That night I watched the magic of alchemy

drive nature to favor disorder, so I proceeded to relay to you

the story of a man, who went on a personal pilgrimage in search of gold

and how he had dug all his life only to find skeletons

of those who had once sought like him.

I finally grew wings and took a sip of your poison,

witnessed the venom rush through my veins, symbolizing

a new beginning, unveiling my heart that was once an unwelcoming home.

That was the day I became a voyager. 9 was the perfect number,

and we still had 8 more days to go and, when the night was over,

we had turned into bird-like creatures who like the wisemen,

glared at the stars and followed them, only to land right back at Que Pasa,

where everything was happening,

the only difference now was that everyone remembered us.

You told me it was our home now, because home is where

our memory lingers in the minds of those who let us wander

as far as we so desire, but remember to keep their arms open

when we finally find our way back home,

and defrost our hearts with their love.

They become our Que Pasa at Las Posadas.

---

Lucille Sambo (born 1999) Zimbabwe

Source: Brittle Paper