los sapos, copan, honduras
a.
we departed before knowing
what consecration could mean,
the blood-channeled consecration
of nurturing organs, fairest fancies
of los sapos, the fanatical mysticism of tree frogs
who croaked new life into labor’s end.
we churned downhill instead, our pair of rented horses
galloping their disdain, a Mayan guide’s
slick encouragement, wishing us to go further
-but in vain.
the site is brief, we were told, a sacred crumb
nearly devoured by an overweight resort.
roofed by tentacles of preponderant ceibas,
a single, asymmetrical slab of stone
lies naked to the elements; this
tropic-tempered slab of stone
with a dark, flaking, earth-stone pregnant body
crowning one end, fat legs wide open,
pointing upwards like two hug-seeking arms,
eager to encourage the freshness
of an expelled fetus.
a spare face with an expression of neither pain
nor joy, but rather dignified resignation.
for this woman, enshrined in earth-stone,
tickled by moss and massaged by lichen,
birth was as natural as the way
equatorial hills are sanctified
by the screechy flirtations of toucans.
b.
our Mayan guide, with an exaggerated frown,
did not push us to visit the site. to our delight,
we thought of you existing someday, in fact
you being conceived just a few months away.
where to go from here?
with the river so close, and the mountains so near?
the mantra of a rose-winged butterfly
resounded so clear:
go forth, from a practice of love,
and slay every demon that you fear.
