General Santa Anna
years after losing his leg
to the French at the battle
of Veracruz had his leg dug up
and reburied with full
military honors. To salvos,
poetry recitals, and touching
speeches, Santa Anna wept
as they lowered his limb
encased in a crystal container
into the Earth. Weeping
so softly he transformed
into wind. His uniform,
with its swaying tassels,
left abandoned in a chair.
Today, there is not a single cloud
in the sky. They have all been buried
in the fields beside the fattening
crops. Given time the clouds will grow
into the heroes and villains of another
generation. Heroes and villains born
in towns much like the one
I am walking through;
where a young man stands
before the baker’s daughter,
his hat held in his hands,
and a butcher scrubs blood
off rubber aprons and gloves; blood
and white foam mixing
in the street gutter a drunk
inadvertently steps in, his barefoot
caked in mud. En la calle San
Sebastián where statues keep vigil
of pigeons and a shattered glass bottle
contemplates the day. I could say
I am map of what we were;
a thousand years condensed
into a breath. How between
each joint in my body
lies a space as dark and cold
as the soil in a field of grass
where the bodies of soldiers lay,
their eyes reflecting the sky.
Place your ear to my chest
and listen—
the field of grass
rippled by wind.