—San Juan Chamula, Chiapas
after a photo by Antonio Turok
I have hiked from the fields with this scythe and hoe,
this necklace of reeds. I have trekked from the forest
in the fleece of the bear. And now it is time
to speak. As the men behind lift the whispering trees.
And flowered clocks circle their star. The boys
to my right sing the song of the burro, pulling
his plow through the dirt. And the girls to my left
hunch in their blankets, awaiting the llama, feed
their mouths of milk. Even the tiniest children
know their part—to dance, and beat the drum.
At dusk the throngs will arrive. The temple doors
will swing open, and shut. But here in the street
are the stones. One by one, we roll them. One by one—
Let us roll them away.