Rule 1: Beware of offers to make you famous.

I, pious Aztec mother lost in housework

am pedestaled, "She of the Serpent Skirt,"

necklace dangling hearts and hands, faceless

statue, two snakes eye-to-eye on my shoulders,

goddess of the earth, also death, which leads to

Rule 2: Retain conntrol of your own publicity

Past is present. Women are women.

I'm not competitive and motherhood isn't

about numbers, but four hundred sons and a daughter

may be a record even without the baby.

There's soemthing wrong in this world

if a woman isn't safe even when she sweeps

her own house, when any speck can enter even through

the eye, I'll bet, and become a stubborn tenant

Rule 3: Protect your uterus

Conceptions, immaculate and otherwise, happen.

Women swallow sacred stones that fill their bellies

with elbows and knees. In Guatemala, a skull dangling

froma tree whispers, "Touch me,"

to a young girl, and a clear drop

drips on her palm, disappears. Dew

drops in, if you know what I mean

Salive moved in her, the girl says. Moved in, I say,

settled into that empty space, and grew. Men know.

They stay full of themselves, keeps occupancy down.

Rule 4: Avoid housework.

Remember, I was sweeping, humming, actually

high on Coatepec, our Serpent Mountain, humming loud

so I wouldn't hear all those sighs inside.

I was sweeping slivers, gold and jade, picking up

after four hundred sons who think they're gods,

and their spoiled sister. I was sweeping

when feathers fell on me, brushed my face,

first light touch in years, like in a dream.

At first, I just blew them off, then I saw

the prettiest ball of tiny plumes, glowing

green and gold. Gently, I gathered it. Oh,

it was soft as baby hair, brought back mother-

shivers when I pressed it to my skin. I nestled it

like I used to nestle them, here,

when they finished nursing. Maybe I even stroked

the roundness. I have since heard that feathers

aren't that unusual at annunciations, but I was innocent.

After sweeping, I looked in vain inside

my clothes, but the soft ball had vanished, well,

descended. I think I showed within the hour,

or so it seemed. They noticed first, of course

Rule 5: Avoid housework. It bears repeating.

I was too busy washing, cooking, sweeping again,

worrying about my daughter, Painted with Bells,

when I began to bump into their frowns

and mutterings. They kept glancing at my stomach,

started pointing. I got hurt and mad, I started crying.

Why do they get to us. One wrong work or look

from any one of them doubles me over,

and I've had four hundred and one, no anesthetic.

Near them I'm like a snail with no shell on a sizzling day.

They started yelling, "Wicked, wicked," and my daughter,

right there with them, my wannabe warrior boy.

The yelling was easier than the whispers, "Kill. Kill.

Kill. Kill." Kill me? Their mother?

One against four hundred and one? All I'd done

was press that featered softness into me.

Rule 6: Listen to inside voices.

You mothers know about the baby in a family, right?

Even if he hadn't talked to me from deep inside,

he would have been special. Maybe the best.

But as my name is Coatlicue, he did.

That unborn child, that started as a ball of feathers

all soft green and gold, heard my woes, and spoke to me.

A thoughtful boy. And formal too. He said, "Do not be afraid,

I know what i must do." So I stopped shaking.

Rule 7: Verify that the inside voice is yours.

I'll spare you the part about the body hacking

and head rolling. But he was provoked, remember.

All this talk of gods and goddesses distorts.

This planet wasn't big enough for all of us,

but my family has done well for itself, I think.

I'm the mother of the stars. My daughter's white head

rolls round the heavens each night, and my sons

wink down at me. What can I say - a family

of high visibility. The baby? Up there also, the sun,

the real thing. Such a god he is, of war unfortunately,

and the boy never stops, always racing across the sky,

every day of the year, a ball of fire since birth.

But I think he has forgotten me. You sense my ambivalence.

I'm blinded by his light.

Rule 8: Insist on personal interviews.

Past is present, remember. Men carved me,

wrote my story, and Eve's, Malinche's, Guadalupe's,

Llorona's, snakes everywhere, even in our mouths

Rule 9: Be selective about what you swallow.

That's a poem by a hispanic woman named Pat Mora. I like it. Good mexican culture poem. That's based on a legend, but written like an interview with a woman.

Well, now about me, the wedding video is done. Even made DVD covers and etc, am sending it out tomorrow with the bill. Out of the $100 I'm charging, I ended up spending $75 on equipment for editing. Oh well, atleast it's stuff I can use again.

Saw Big Fish last night. Cool movie. Made me want to be a writer so bad! I dunno, just an awesome movie. My new favorite I think.

Friday we DID have On Eagle's Wings rehearsals! We're filming in two weeks! Hopefully that goes well.