In Copán trees macaws fly, scream, and groom,
their scarlet feathers looking much like blood
that flowed here long ago and recently.
The feathers of their tails stream out behind.
The passerby feels blest though he is not.
Before his blood flows just like everyone’s,
like that that flowed in grooves on altar-stones,
and blood that flowed from army massacres,
as long as flesh unruptured holds,
he’ll make himself as busy as these birds.
Día de los Muertos
On Dia de los Muertos some here choose
to picnic with their loved ones by their graves,
and some then strive with Gallo beer to kill
mosquitoes of the mind that can draw blood.
Out front a wobbly Rambo sheds his shirt
and dares the other men to come and fight.
In corners of red eyes I see bright tears.
Thin dogs with hanging dugs pace back and forth.
Their glance explains -- there’s nothing more to say.
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