MEXICO

michaelmayo@pvnet.com.mx 

As the Latin American War Approaches 

To listen for the sound of water 
on distant shores 
And hear only of men dying there! 


It is a seashell, and I stoop low 
The small ears of the Caribbean dead call out our name 
Ears that fall into our laps as we open the morning paper 
Small ears worn by the powerful 
when they gather in the dying light 


The General who offers 
his first-born son 
The river has a quiet, deep bed 


The Financier who fixes his price 
on the world market 
The blown out oil wells, and children's hearts 


And the Secretary of State 
who saw good reason 
in the mad junta's eye spaces 


The rush-hour train groans and overturns 
on the great curvature of the world 


The population centers grow thin and ragged 
like the children of the poor 
The fighting tosses and turns by fits, gets up 
and marches into the ocean 
The dead wash up at our feet 

© All Copyright, 2000, Michael Mayo.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.