The bell tower of Saint Jerome is still
standing
over mortar, straw and brick still
burying
her red willow dead without the
caskets
the Spanish brought.

Only wooden crosses
with Christian surnames
above the mica clay
remain.

Their Tewa names below
the silence of their tongues
that day, huddled around their story
teller, while mother Mary reigned
fire and brimstone from her black canon
and even now only written down
on zephyr�s breath.

The bell tower of Saint Jerome is still
ringing
its hands of clay
still cracking and bleeding
for no one
will dress them
but the sun.

The masses
still standing or kneeling
not too far away, the blue lake ribbon
with its red willows�
safe.

The stream knows its banks
need not turn
no matter how much rain
or snow or hail�
mother earth embraces all
the children sitting in her lap
but only whispers stories
to her own.



� 2004 by Terry Lucas

Previously published in The Harwood Review