Poetry: blest by Monique Quintana


When I was seven, I hid in the slow seeds of the hallway and conjured you,

halfway in my book of demons, a Ouija board, another alphabet, another number, my future in

seven years.

The lampshade melted, became candlewax, red for power, then black for protection,

and when I found you in the in-between, we couldn’t speak,

so I crushed sage smoke petals in my fingers tips and touched them to my eyes, saw the nether side of skull and knees, writing letters on the veins of leaves you never read, yet wrapped carefully

in prayer paper.  You wrote



Now, the only thing to teach me is how to betray my body.

Tell me how I can debase the Holy, when only I can burn us

clean away.


Monique Quintana is the Editor-in-Chief of the blogazine, Razorhouse and is a contributing Fashion & Beauty Editor for Luna Luna Magazine. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Huizache, Bordersenses, and The Acentos Review, among others. She is a Pocha/Chicana feminist bruja writing and teaching english in California’s Central Valley.

Image found on Pinterest with link to the Etsy Shop.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s