Teotihuacan, ancestor of elements,
Grass plays on the land,
Tomato, corn, peppers.

Married at an early age,
The matts of sedge were
Rolled out for the city and
The neighbors to welcome.

Santa Maria carry our burdens.
Domingo, Sabado, let us rest.
High cliffs and sea bird nests,
The flat flooded plain.

Mangrove and coconut,
Chocolate and cactus,
Coffee and sinsemilla.
Up late, all night dancing.

Stars from the showered moon,
The cling of low clouds come morning
On the thunder, on the cloud towers
Lit like flowers bent but open.

Open as heart on stone
Turning the wheel to another cycle of being born
And feeding on our blood.
Our slaves wounded from war,
Our grandmothers clothed in furs.

A lone traveler and a great river meet
and appreciate no further.
In this nature, we must continue.
In this day, work.

On the night, wings.
Smoke of the common bed,
A hearth of coals.
The people sleep as in a den,
Dark but for heart glow and low flame.

Tarantula, armadillo,
Badger beyond the margin,
Eternally raising young and more
As a stepping stone for time to bring us along.

Bring us to what we borrow,
What was left as a hole
When we had to move.
Broken leg, cobweb jungle trail,
Biting iridescent flies.
Panorama hidden by trees.

Blow dart sick with fever
Dream of the turquoise land
And the purple dot flowers.
Our cousin drooling
Our way barred and so
Vision ensues.

Rhapsodic rhythm, feet and smoke putt putt the mind,
The dry sands of the arroyo,
The flats of saline and sharp stone,
Hot as candles, far as stars.
We must have kept moving to have made it here.

Made it from wattle and leaves,
From round stones and branches,
From what we brought and what we gave.

Sand land,
Cut river,
Found.
In the middle of cave town
Down around glum and gum
Where the thing stuck in the back of your throat is as
The lance stave – the last thing the living know
As one is filled by the heart’s pumping
But the place of containment is severed,
Internal bleeding,
Certain death on the mountainside or crib like
By a lake with shelters made of leafy branches to
Keep us from the hot sun,
The burning one that is drying up the edges of the
Broad marsh and spikey reeds that are the lake side,
The ambivalent hole in the center of our world.

Never mind,
It comes again, wailing and wheeling,
Giving up the source and
Coming in through another entrance,
Going out all over everywhere.

A body no more,
History no more,
Only chalice
And that which was once contained.

By Rolf Stavig
1-10-2021