Man Made Soft
In the sanctuary of a colonial Church, a life-sized Jesus
drags a cross constructed from thick branches.
His body heaves from the weight. His shoulders sag.
Another icon in a Church filled with them, I tell myself.
This one on his way to Calvary.
I mean to step away, but his gaze….
How the eyes of a wooden statue
can fill my chest with fire, I do not know.
I stand seared, breath gone,
feet planted on the cracked stone beneath them.
Some call this rapture. I know only that I cannot turn away,
cannot turn from this man made soft by the weight.
And I am no believer.
Homage to Masa
A woman stands at a wooden table
on the patio of Posada Don Rodrigo.
Her embroidered blouse–tangerine-colored.
A white scarf covers her hair.
Beside her a large bowl of masa covered
by a blue cloth.
Slowly, she moves her palm over the mound,
removes the cloth,
scoops out a chunk with her hand,
pats it down between her palms,
slapping the masa back and forth,
back and forth,
each slap loud enough to grab the attention
of guests at the tables facing her.
They smile, she smiles,
still slapping the masa back and forth,
setting a rhythm with her palms,
flattening the mound,
rounding it for the tortilla pan.
Over and over, she scoops masa,
coaxes tortillas to life.
Permisso
Antigua Mercado be careful backpack in front hold on
women carrying babies bundles heads carrying
hawking hawking like hens cackling ceaselessly
everything the home wants the body wants
brushes lighters batteries watches clothing shoes dishes plastics
frutas spices beef slabs hanging pollo mariscos delicioso
goldfish puppies squealing birds squealing children
hawking hawking close hot reeking eyes burning
permisso permisso permisso
Picnic
At Iximche two bone thin dogs
invite themselves to our picnic,
lap up beet juice, radish bits
fallen on the hard dirt,
their pleading eyes round,
rounder. They are all eyes,
these dogs. Each lies on his side
of an invisible line, not crossing it,
even for scraps the other shuns.
They do not beg.
The dogs watch and wait,
do not make a sound.
Sticky Sweet
We ate passion fruit
sticky sweet on the fingers
with dust clouds and exhaust
watching men spit
watermelon seeds in the dirt
that was once the Guatemalan highway.
Mayan Smile
Teeth outlined in gold;
Stars etched on front incisors.
A broad Mayan smile.
Supple-Spined Dancers
Blossom of yellow petals,
each separate, arching down
away from the bulbous center.
Supple-spined dancers.
Crow the Night Long
In Panajachel, roosters crow the night long,
their shrill chorus—punctuated by barks and yips—
ceaseless as the daytime hawkers at the Mercado.
And the crowing continues well past dawn.
In my half-sleep, ghouls visit, stomp in time
to these macabre notes. Such a tale of sorrow
the cocks of this stolen land tell
with their 3-step cries.
Celebration
In Jaibilito, evangelicos sing, wail, play their instruments loud,
and the dogs croon, bring an odd harmony to the human cries.
A cacophony of celebration in praise of the Lord.
Wind and Laughter
Standing in the back of a pick-up truck,
we climb eleven kilometers above Zunil.
I hold on laughing, wind on my face
and a thick mist diffusing the sun’s rays.
I’m a child again running wild in the breeze,
arms outstretched, turning, turning
until I fall dizzy down. I’m seventeen
in Buddy’s convertible, soft ice cream blown
all over my face, reaching my tongue to the cleft
of my chin, licking, singing at the top of my voice.
Laden Waters
Black waters of Zunil
laden with garbage
and the stench of rot.
From the bridge,
a small boy tosses his litter
into the rushing current.
He grins, teeth stark
against his dark cracked lips.
Down the Mountain Road
And we began walking
down the mountain road
through cloud mists,
where trees became spectres,
past fields—terraced and flat—
all of them verdant green,
past stooped men with canisters
strapped to their backs, spraying,
past hundreds of knobby carrots
fatter than my closed fist and
the deepest orange,
past cabbages big as basketballs,
heaped at the side of the road
waiting for transport,
past horses grazing,
past a graveyard with a freshly dug
plot and six wooden crosses,
painted white, while we talked
of politics, purpose, the meaning
of life, until a car passed us,
stopped, and the four of us
squeezed into its tight backseat
for the short ride to Zunil.
Funeral Procession
On our way to the bus
back to Xela, we ambled
through narrow streets
of Zunil, found ourselves
unable to budge, in the thick
of a funeral procession.
Five hundred Mayan villagers
were walking a steep road
to the cemetery. Women led
in rows ten-deep. Silent,
with no visible expression,
dressed in trajes of explosive
colors incongruous with their
heavy steps.
Men followed, many red-eyed
and lurching, chanting in Quiche,
clutching wreaths and bottles
of white rum.
Rapt, we stared
as the copper-toned coffin
covered with a bed of flowers
made its way up the mountain,
weaving from side to side.
Not a single Mayan looked
in our direction. Invisible,
they walked right through us.
Nice Weiss at Club El Caurito
In a smoke-filled room at Club El Caurito, eyes burn,
huge speakers blare. Women serve food and drink.
Like a conductor coaxing even the smallest sounds,
my son serves up jazz, reggae, hip-hop, soul.
Never still, body in sync, his hands dance the air.
Spooked Again
8 a.m. sun is already warm
for my morning walk in Xela.
No easy strides on these sidewalks
barely as wide as I am and filled
with cracks and holes to avoid.
Parents walk children to school,
men piss on buildings, merchants
sweep their front stoops, nod to me.
An adolescent boy and girl sit
on a corner wrapped in embrace,
faces only inches apart.
Even they look up, smile.
Buenos dias, mouthed in unison.
In the Xela Square, six men
in black cloaks and pointed hoods
walk with a heavy, purposive gait.
Their swagger spooks me, flashes
memories of robed Klansmen
in their white hoods. I heard tales
of a cross burned on my step-father’s
lawn. I saw them once. White ghouls
in my school yard, torches blazing
against the night sky.
On a stroll to greet the day,
these six men in black
take me back to a night
long-forgotten.
Encountering Maximon
A small cement room bare of furnishings.
Hundreds of lit candles melting on the cement floor
in thick clumps of black, pink, green.
Fumes and smoke from incense, cigarettes, votives
fill the air, dim the vision and gag a dry throat.
At the front of this close room, a painted wooden man
sits in a chair. Life-sized, he is clothed in simple slacks,
a white shirt, blue bandana around his neck.
A red rebozo drapes his right shoulder, cowboy hat
covers brown hair. Dark sunglasses—the flashy kind—
obscure his eyes; covering his mouth, a black cloth.
Maximon resembles a Mexican bandito more than a Mayan god.
Supplicants chant in Spanish, Quiche, plead, weep,
stroke his face, grab his hand, bring offerings, quetzales,
white rum and smoke for his miracles.
Maximon, bless us with rich soil, abundant life,
lusty, and raw with pleasure. Turn our tremblings to gold.
He works all day, and at night, like a baby,
he is undressed, put to bed.