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I spent, in the last 10 years
or so, a little bit of time

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in Mexico.

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off and on anyway.

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And this poem entitled "The
Republic of Mexico," I suppose,

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reflects one attitude
to parts of Mexico.

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Certainly not all of Mexico,
but Mexico as I traveled.

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"The Republic of Mexico."

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Whose soul is revealed in hidden
villages on stilts of bone?

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By the yellow fingers
of aged apothecaries,

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by the sphincters of
combustible mountains,

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by the fierce eyes of spider
crabs on orange beaches,

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and the tears of
desperate brides

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wedded to the five
wounds of Christ.

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In whose landscape I
see bishops of madness

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with miraculous shin
bones and flaming bowels.

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The perjured eyelids of duennas,
plumed warriors scarring heaven

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with Catherine wheels
and crazy rockets.

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Sad petticoats and dance
of Citron and cockroach.

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Secret botanies of the
groin and the scabs and lice

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of a million drunken plowmen.

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Whose lament is heard
from the crazed throats

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of gourds and bells?

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From ubiquitous masked
guitars steeped in tequila,

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from continents of
chandeliers rising

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from the passionate
scene, and sung

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by the ululating one-eyed
woman, whose hair is perpetually

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entangled in the
national lottery.

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Oh, vast Republic,
your violet clouds

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weep drops of blood and
unique electric blossoms.

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Your churches rotting in the sun
give birth to storms of worms.

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Your highways end in
thickets of dark cilia.

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Your calendars smoke like
the mouths of pistols.

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I watched the lightning
over Ixtacìhuatl.

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The great cordillera
sinks beneath its burden

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of ardent stones.

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