I spent, in the last 10 years or so, a little bit of time
in Mexico.
off and on anyway.
And this poem entitled "The Republic of Mexico," I suppose,
reflects one attitude to parts of Mexico.
Certainly not all of Mexico, but Mexico as I traveled.
"The Republic of Mexico."
Whose soul is revealed in hidden villages on stilts of bone?
By the yellow fingers of aged apothecaries,
by the sphincters of combustible mountains,
by the fierce eyes of spider crabs on orange beaches,
and the tears of desperate brides
wedded to the five wounds of Christ.
In whose landscape I see bishops of madness
with miraculous shin bones and flaming bowels.
The perjured eyelids of duennas, plumed warriors scarring heaven
with Catherine wheels and crazy rockets.
Sad petticoats and dance of Citron and cockroach.
Secret botanies of the groin and the scabs and lice
of a million drunken plowmen.
Whose lament is heard from the crazed throats
of gourds and bells?
From ubiquitous masked guitars steeped in tequila,
from continents of chandeliers rising
from the passionate scene, and sung
by the ululating one-eyed woman, whose hair is perpetually
entangled in the national lottery.
Oh, vast Republic, your violet clouds
weep drops of blood and unique electric blossoms.
Your churches rotting in the sun give birth to storms of worms.
Your highways end in thickets of dark cilia.
Your calendars smoke like the mouths of pistols.
I watched the lightning over Ixtacìhuatl.
The great cordillera sinks beneath its burden
of ardent stones.