The desert Cucuy my grandmother warned us about was a figure of brutal sexual dread, filled with the power of the old gods and the earth who listened for miscreance with an enthusiastic ear. He was a jumble of animals and cultures, flying across lands and borders to snatch you straight from your bed. My grandmother and I, and others like us, knew this monster and did not fear him for our sakes.
Words are nourishment. Words are sustenance. The writer wants to use “words that sustain”. Words are nutritious, fertile–to have them, to consume them begins a transformation, a ripening. The words of the text are the fruit of it, cultivated by the writer.