Filled with oaths, oraciones, and soliloquies, blud opens with the first time the narrator came back to life, “a halo of birds” coveting her crown, and traces wound through bloodlines the way family constellations map inheritance of genetic trauma (such as leverage, which chronicles the narrator’s abuela surviving rape). It asks: if our bisabuelas have passed down their sadness through our bloodlines—have they not also given us survival and resistance too?
In oath (blud litany), we enter the holy cuerpo with quatrains: “if you’re always willing to risk more than what you’ve been given, if you wake up feeling empty & struggle to allow this emptiness, to be a comfort as you lie still within the soft forgotten witch of your body.” As the poem builds its rhythmic chant, it becomes a promise, a dedication, and a breaking apart of neo-colonialism with its reference to kin (a nod to survival of the Atlantic) and familia (a nod to resistance): “into its muddy tapestry, we are kin / familia / famia(r) / B-L-U-D/ blud fanged & one-voweled, the thick & heavy. Simple./ From out the mud we siren eternal/ Blud royals of lost skin & shadow.” The last two stanzas are their own oración: a spell to free us all. Tight rhythm makes bars of each structured line. Embrace the blud of you, all your inner bruja. I did, and it revived me.
Poem, * * *, which comes as asterisks after oath (blud litany) demands me to let my last love surface: “The Blessed. The Beast. The Last Love.” Not your first, nor your second or third, but your last: that love which “can pull us out of ourselves until we are/ no longer sisters or daughters or sword swallowers/ but instead women who give & lead & take & want/ & want/ & want/ & want/ because there is no shame in wanting. & you will.”
As a survivor of sexual assault, when crossing the lake to your beloved, it is often hard to believe that your want will be found as a jewel. It is difficile to separate your desire from the pain experienced from violence. To no longer swallow the blade and to instead embrace the desire we embody is to sing ourselves toward a new destiny: to find our last love who honors that sacred jewel of a lake inside.
The magic of blud is in how it chants back. McKibbens chants at false myths of mental illness and sexual violence. We find ourselves holy again—we always were. Holy like Guadalupe inside a cloak of constellations, pistol hidden below a fabric of night. We find ourselves within a coven—ready to fight back; ready to love. Strong narratives “with a starving bitch/ & pistol at the ready” pop with sacred images (“& all that dark honey”) inside inverted parallels: a girl turned woman surviving mental illness over and over, the devotion of her daughters in the kitchen. The narrative throughout is held together within a soliloquy of spells. The power of the coven is found in una oración (bruja’s soliloquy) in the “blur of this electric mouth” and “this cauldron of a cunt.”
Within a searing narrative that turns survival into invokation, McKibbens conjures both chance and power. Chingona—she doesn’t hold magic back. She offers up incantations. She asks us to see ourselves as our own church—our own place to pray. When we read blud, we coven. —