dear Earth,
dear Ixchel,
March 1, 2013
The taxi driver takes the long
route, I'm irritated until
I begin to see (again) small
stores with oranges, papaya,
mangoes, bananas, broccoli, avocados,
tomatoes, fresh corn, fresh squash,
fresh strawberries, watermelons
from neighboring fields, some
plowed by horses- everything
tastes like it self, earth
born, not the killing laboratories
where false food becomes
chemicals that stunt our
children's brains, bodies,
spirits, and then medicate
them, they're hyperactive,
autistic, so-called spectrum.
The vendor on the corner, his
small cart, laughs as he
swiftly slices papaya, mangoes,
watermelon, pineapple, in
containers, lime/chilie on
top, the young woman
roasting her small chickens
(no growth hormones) under
an open flame, she'll spoon
free roasted potatoes, onions,
jalapenos into the plastic bag,
freshly made salsa, a small
store selling handmade
tortillas, freshly roasted
corn into plastic bags,
the vendor on the corner with
her still warm chicken/pork
tamales, hot atole, science
doesn't intrude on the
streets here, only a muted
human joy, meeting eyes, greeting
this one, that one, "Buenos dias."
I follow fully feathered
dancers, women, children,
teens, men burning copal, guitars,
full throated singing, drumming
guides the feet, alive
human joy revealed,
feathered dancers turn
toward newborn Sixth
Sun Spring, a large
man painted entirely blue
sky, lighting bolts appearing,
Thunder Being Kachina-
a tattooed teen hidden in
fangs, eagle/owl feathers,
kneels both knees, tourists
rush to photograph him-
"He's praying," I say-
"Looks like he's posing to
me," they say- they focus
on his sacred passion,
his Beloved Spring, and when
he suddenly screams, a
jaguar, they scatter, I
laugh, he continues to dance,
kneel, pray, dance, his Beloved
into being. Into being.
The children turn on the
cobbles, little rattles creating
rain, the drummers creating
thunder, the young women,
girls creating beauty, the
tattooed teen dancing passion,
womb of Spring,
praying passion,
womb of Spring,
into being, that we
may live.
* * * *
Not in the infertile test tubes of
science, but in the endlessly
fertile, wild womb of
Ixchel, our Beloved Spring,
that we may
live, that our
children live, dear
World, dear
Earth, dear
Ixchel, dear
beloved jaguar
spring.
San Miguel de Allende, Mexico
**The painting, Frida Kahlo, Casa Azul.
