After the civil war I met a burly man 
in Cahabón, a farm town beyond Lanquín
below the lush valley of Cobán
where orchids festoon the walls. 

Barrel-chested, a thoughtful head 
adorned with black curly hair
and eyebrows of The Thinker,
his yellow-flowered shirt open 
to the sternum—all speak of energy.

A man trusted by his fellows
he seeks no advantage, resists any 
who would again dangle his people 
before the schemes and guns of the rich—
he is a man of his word—
always

Guatemala, Alta Verapaz 
                        

As heavy summer clouds eddy 
	unhurried
below the volcano’s ash gray 
	crown,
the certainty of human loss
	in civil war 
weighs heavily on my heart

Above on the mountain’s 
	“road of tears”
conscripted soldiers patrol a future
	none can divine,  
each young man primed
	to commit murder 
of countrymen made 
	enemy by politicians.

I want to lie in the grass
unaware of time or place.

Near Xela, Guatemala
                        

War-widowed Maya mom
just 32, and fond of blue.
Like a fine watch—time proof 
in her culture by the lake 
where heaven is her cupola.

Her soul, birthed from sacred corn 
Her youth, once a boundless field, 
she dreams of rainbows for her children, 
talks to sighing syncretic saints above
the glittering lake, her balcony of dreams.

Holding small secrets behind her teeth
she moves gently, proudly on bare feet
as modern times are pulled like wool
over the eyes of her children and gentle
marimba tones are muted by salsa din.

San Marcos, Lake Atitlán. Guatemala