To Not Even Be A Ghost
The sun sets
The rain falls
The forest decays,
The sacred words go unspoken.
The fields lay fallow
along the slopes
of an unremembered memory.
First, there is void
then the word
then the whole:
Red Corn to the east-The way of the visionary
Yellow Corn to the west-The way of the healer
White Corn to the south-The way of the teacher
Black Corn to the north-The way of the sacred warrior, then
the world turns upside down across the sky
on the scales of The Crocodile's back
on the river to Xibalba.
The great helicopters come down with the first rains
upon the April fields
upon the footprints
of the old Oldabuelos.
Finally, there is void.
There is Earthmother,
She doesn't speak when no one is left
In the poverty and broken glass of market economics
progress marches forward to forget.
With time anything can be silenced-
The words no longer spoken are destined
to have never existed.
The bullet itself is nothing more than hot air
displaced, once released from the rifle
it does its damage without sound.
For the disappeared may not speak
once there stories never were.