11
March
2009
March
2009
Panajachel
I’m back at Panajachel
where eight young girls surround me,
their dirt stained faces and flickering eyes
shrouded in indigenous wrappings
of brightly colored blues and greens,
Space
wrappings that recount the story,
their ancestors’ rise; then the fall under
the swords of conquistadors,
faces weathered from working too young,
from the lack of food and compensation,
and their calloused hands, signs of existence
they etch out on the jungle hillsides.
Space
Supposed jade necklaces and bracelets
are shoved my direction,
are accented by pattering Spanish.
Beneath the blazing Guatemalan sun,
Space
I stare past them
across the cobalt green lake
to the three towering volcanoes,
Toliman, Atitlan and San Pedro,
their heads hidden in clouds.
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