They call her many things,
that Magdalena.
(my Magdalena)
But I prefer to call her by her real name:
Mentirosa.

I ask her no questions,
but she tells me her lies;
Every.
Last.
One.
She savors them, right before they crawl out of her mouth
and into the air,
like a swarm of starving locusts, hungry for my ears.
Su verdad es un chiste.
And, somehow, I find it funny.

"The demons gossip around their water cooler,
and the devil sharpens her nails on the bones of fallen heroes,
killed by the very man they swore to protect.
The angels pluck their electric harp strings.
Plugged into the Holy Spirit for the sound, they pollute the world
With more songs of righteousness and salvation that is surely a myth,
If you listen to the news."

La estrella de David no puede dormir.
And neither can I,
With all this talk of death and chaos and revelation.
My soul screams mortality.
My heart pleads the Fifth.

And when the truth gnaws at my ears until they bleed,
until they crack and scab
and fall to the ground as black husks,
I run to her,
The Goddess of Illusion and Dark Alleys of Thought.
Y siempre voy a correr a la mentirosa.
Because she is the only thing I can rely on,
The only thing I can believe in,
Even if every sentence--
every word, every syllable
her tongue paints is a lie.

And, yes, Magdalena,
(my Magdalena)
how I wish it weren't true.


Su verdad es un chiste: Her truth is a joke.
La estrella de David no puede dormir: The Star of David cannot sleep.
Y siempre voy a correr a la mentirosa: And I am always running to the liar.