Tomóchic Blood
Witt, Shirley Hill / Chávez, Gilberto
Variable winds carry the stench of burned flesh up to the promontory where I, General José María Rangel, sit atop my nervous horse. It occurs to me that the smell is not unlike that of an asado I sampled in Buenos Aires some years ago. Meat, after all, is meat, whether animal or human. From time to time the animal beneath me shies and dances when a rolling cloud reaches high enough to engulf us. Below, the village of Tomóchic smolders, nearly ...