-triunfo de la cruz, honduras
i studied your mother's palms,
tributaries of veins intersecting
on a blacktop of flesh.
here, in the bosom of triunfo, life was fresh,
we discarded the routine of drudgery
and replaced it with a renaissance.
rebirth, as promised, arrived bareback,
atop the golden palomino of another country.
these garifuna are not like honduras, more
an understated nation of rooted drifters.
these sand-carpeted streets dream of an africa
that never knew slavery, echo an africa
impossible without it.
at the same time, this genetic smoothie
of steadfast carib and warrior black,
confidently laid-back
rooted drifters skating on the heels
of potential industry.
here in triunfo, the western union office
is like receiving a sacrament, queues of parishioners
filing up to the distracted desk clerk
to accept a bloody eucharist of greenbacks.
i pondered toothpick groves of palm,
as we wondered what gifiti
might really be, sucked on the balm
of salt sea air, watched the half-moon
of a bent fisherman measuring
his only catch.
here, in the bosom of triunfo,
life was always fresh. we jettisoned a past
of duplicated prediction, and replaced it
with highly heretical hallucinations-
of upturned palms not caring
about someone else's economy.
