This state exists in paradox:
green fields are alive with imported bulls,
A cathedral rises on sacrificial ground: a Baroque monolith;
dark saints bathe in the river of gods, and blond angels
shatter images of winged serpents trapped in the talons of visionary birds.
The country is a mirror, breaking:
the hills of Chapultapec and Atlixco erode,
reveal a thousand pyramid temples;
arrowheads are discovered daily by children
five-hundred years removed from their ancestors.
The land has become a parent, androgynous:
the Spaniard takes Malinche
to his bed; he breathes still, lives
through her creation, his procreation.
The children sit in the dust at their feet.
Now we stand in the middle of a river,
looking for Tonatiuh, trying to trap Him
with electricity and glass. He looks on, burns pale skin
brown, melts gold with His heat, singes the hats
of field workers, rises around us in heat distortions.
We tread and wade, but the water won’t part
for us. We are without borders, kept
between lines. His only message
is an eruption of dust that baptizes
the child who will climb His pyramid.
The secret, centered in the mirror,
shreds hearts like ripening fruit.
© Christina Salme Ruiz