oaxaca, mexico
the origins of such a routine conflict
will go unremarked in "official,"
state-sponsored, highly sanitized
history curricula. luisa's kid ranaway,
lured by an older, unwanted child
into a zanadu of free movement.
when they found gordito,
he was busy regaling a busful
with doleful rancheros.
outside the garden of santo domingo,
copycat puestos rattle, a harsh wind
slaps their skin like a paddle.
a baby far too young to tattle
is hoisted by her drunken father
onto a precarious saddle.
suddenly, sister begins to battle sister,
the impossibility of true friendship
for the poor is confirmed
in the scowls of stunned pedestrians.
their uncensored rage
complicates our privileged refinement.
mats of gelled nordic hair and starched polo shirts,
pensive, apprehensive
to proceed. one even takes a picture,
aims with the precision of a hunter
sizing up his prey, in this veritable safari
of drudgery. his fivestarhotelkeys
lurk unmolested in a $200 pocket.
rosa's face, normally as inviting
as a shot of good tequila, is suddenly
vengeful, menacing
that essential image from our brochures.
bonfil batalla wrote that mexicans
are all really indigenas, but should they be stoic,
passive, bent over a milpa, fadeless sombreros,
sunburnt sandals, and elegant wrinkles
conveying a hoped-for stereotype?
