In A Mexican Church You kneel in cool darkness A hunched and wizened woman approaches The candle she carries engraves her face with shadows She passes the light to you You press a heavy coin into her twisted hand The crone shuffles back Disappearing into an atmosphere so heavy It compresses the glow of your candle forming a halo around your hands Outside Solar gods are brandishing white flames Inside Your eyes pierce the depths You know that this blackness is not a shroud It is the mantel of the mother

You descend with her the inverted pyramid To night, a subterranean river Whose satin currents divide velvet shades Where in memory you suck cold spring water Breaking between granite thighs Hot wax drips, burning your hand A sudden draft, carrying the scent of rain Extinguishes your candle You release your tears and curses Walking into the softly falling rain You remember My father killed my child