A woman wailed through the streets,
a ghoul-toned whine, trembling
like water in a glass touched by an unseen hand,

as we, eight to a room, sprawled on blankets instead of beds,
like puppies in a whelping box, fat-bellied,
content in that warm puddle of family.

The air still smoldered by the day’s joy—
a baptism, a celebration—
but we slept in the endless depth
of night’s indigo hush, unaware
of the drifting specter outside.

Then, a cry pierced through town cracks,
threading sorrow through mice burrows,
keyhole eyes, and our window left ajar.

Beside me, my mother and grandmother stiffened,
the shrill close enough to trace our spines
with a dead finger, wicking away our warmth.

The moon glinted silver off their blinking eyes.
Covers pulled up tight against our noses,
holding our breaths, waiting, waiting—

was it the warbling wind,
or the Weeping Woman finding us at last?

La Llorona, searching for her children,
ready to drag us beneath the gurgling folds of water
an anchor to end her eternity brushing against the living.

By morning, we learned the truth.
No ghost, no drowned children—
only a daughter who found her father
face-down in rat poison,
mouth open as if calling her name.

She did not grieve but came apart,
breath unraveling in gasps,

an apparition, dress dragging through gutters,
her feet bare, blistered. Untethered,
her voice peeled the night open.

She became an apparition, roaming, wailing
through the streets. Driven mad, she was mistaken for legend.
And for a moment—a few thumping beats of the heart’s drum—
as we huddled in fear, the dark teething at our sheets,
we were all children together:

waiting for the waves to close above us,
for the wailing in the streets to be ours,
for dead to call us, find us too.

—Kaylee Salazar

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