Death
is the Mother of Beauty
h
In
the grand cathedral in Mexico City,
bloody
Jesus hangs, alcove after alcove,
images
of torn martyrs, icons,
candles
burn and old women pray.
The
old brown guide says, isn’t
it beautiful,
isn’t
it beautiful?
In
the plaza, dark women sell trinkets,
the
children run and circle, they beg you
to
give them pesos, pilgrims wend in and out,
a
street play is performed. Hungry
bones
are
everywhere, isn’t it beautiful?
At
the pyramid, recently excavated, see the remains
of
the conquered, the Christian cathedral constructed
to
cover, obscure, dominate the pagan temple;
see
the map, the ancient place where
Indians
ruled their own country, ruling
with
human sacrifices, more blood, so beautiful,
so
beautiful!
A
child walks beside me, he has brown eyes and
unruly
brown hair, he is barefoot and wears short pants,
what
a beauty I think as he takes my hand, but
the
little brown hand is in my pocket,
he
looks at me frightened and runs.
Such
beauty in the pickpocket!
Mexican
death is murderous beauty,
mothers
herd their children in hope
that
the gringos will spare a coin,
a
beauteous dollar, something for food.
Police
wander through and watch.