The duende got into my head
by the back staircase,
a gypsy girl-child dressed in red
with an old man’s face.
My bedroom turned bitter cold.
There were banging noises,
loud knockings in between the walls.
Things left their places.
My comb crawled across the bureau,
clicking like castanets.
My grandmother’s ivory-backed mirror
cracked itself into bits.
Get out of my head, old child.
Te exorcizo!
Take your tricks and your wild ways
back to Andalusia.
Go home, poltergeist,
and do Spanish damage.
I have my own bad guests
that speak my own bad language.