© Joanna Parypinski
In fields dry-roasted by the baking sun
that blazes on the lavender flowers
of the Moca tree sprawl four flaccid sheep;
they are not asleep, their glassy eyes gaze
into infinity, and tiny puncture
wounds pierce through flesh and fleece,
now pale, now drained.
There, on the field of dead
yellow grass, slump nine deflated goats
and thirty turkeys bled bone dry. Ay,
Díos mío, ¿qué permitiste pasar?
In the night the Chupacabra slinks
through the shadowland:
reptilian scales on green-gray skin
and spines like knives on its back;
it hops like a kangaroo, with a dog face,
a panther nose, shark-like fangs
and blood-red eyes and bat wings.
Oh, hiss and screech if you will,
go slouching through the city streets
on alien feet, and see who smells
the sulfur rotting on your snakelike tongue.
¿De dónde es el extranjero?
Area 51 was not so ripe.
In Maine, by the side of a well-paved road
lolled the limp and lifeless carcass, roadkill
plowed down by monster truck tires
and a sneering steel front bumper
with flies in its teeth. Nobody could
identify the rodent-like animal
with razor fangs, and by time they saw
it anyway, the vultures had picked it
clean. No tema lo que no existe.
…¡que exista todo! Oh, mauler of
livestock, legend notorious, where were
you when they said el Vampiro de Moca
was a pack of rogue crocodiles?