Tzintzuntzan

Had I not left the bazaar

& the streets curtained

with paper streamers

left the shops displaying

glazed green pineapples

& straw fans

& low-fire bakeware

Had I not stopped

taking digital photographs

of the hills

as they poked into a puny sky

& artisans hammering coppery kitsch

I would not have been drawn eastward

beyond the loncherias & gazpacho carts

nor ended here

in the burial grounds

wedged at the base of Las Yacatas

near the Quiroga road

below the ruined temples

of the Tarascan league

& the fortified sanctuary of Franciscan authority

between the ruined bricks of an honest

yet implacable god

& an olive grove

planted by monks professing otherwise

What happens to those

who die in an indigenous capital

years after conquest

who die in a town called

the place of the hummingbirds

Tzintzuntzan

What happens

to those who mature & perish

& those who perish long before maturation

Face it: they are all

each to the very last

boxed or burned or spat upon

or driven from memory with a common curse

But despite this

or exactly because of this

I drag you here

No way you would have come

of your own accord

You would have insisted on staying

at the edge of these pages

buying curios

or tasting regional fare

or ruminating about prehistory

about the inherent conflict between

native & institutional theologies

or you would have opted out entirely

not even excusing yourself

not even admitting you were a tad curious

So you are agitated

loathe like those beneath us

to give over to the journey

Though it’s not fear of darkness per se

It is daytime

& the sun’s assertion

cannot be disavowed

It’s not the eeriness of decay either

or the one-shot thing

or that another of your fetishes

will be revealed to those driving by

It’s that you hate to be lead

Actually it’s that you hate

to be coddled

Anyway you figure it

It’s hard to make it happen

whatever it

is

& admittedly things have turned

a wee bit odd

& you have afforded yourself

the luxury of being pissed

or at least fidgety

given that the reward will likely be subtle

But look it’s Mexico

& though it is not the Day of the Dead

the dead demand our focused attention

&

truth be told

you have always shortchanged them

or in any event

you were distracted

when I dragged you through the gate

& we passed under the cantera arches

I had hoped at least

that there would be birds

If not hummingbirds

(too cute right?)

that I could introduce you to cemetery swallows

at least to the Spanish

word for them: golondrinas

that I could direct your attention

to their banking

& that a few would land

on a wrought iron altar

on a wreathe of polyester ribbons

on a blue-eyed & bloodied Christ

or begin to nibble at a geranium

potted in a mayo jar