One night in the woods outside Flagstaff,
An eerie mariachi band seemed to rehearse
In the next cabin over. The following morning
Daughter and body found the same band
Playing the same tunes in the courtyard
Of the museum. Was it? Dia de los muertos
Was still ten days away, but at the museum
They were celebrating early, the courtyard
Lined with colorful skulls and skeletons
And, in the shade, rows of folding tables
Set out with cornucopia of the same, plus
Skeleton dolls, playing cards, incense sticks,
Votive candles, photos of lost loved ones,
Favorite beverages and snacks of the dead,
Tending toward comfort food, beer, and pop.
At one table a man sat eagerly explaining
His family photographs and mementos,
The tiny wedding picture of his grandparents
Married at fifteen (but they look a lot older,
Don’t they?), the worn outfielder gloves, soft
As chamois (my great grandfather played
Minor league, before he served in the War).
Daughter joined the line and had her face
Disguised as a lipless skull, accessorized
With flamboyant blue and purple spangles.
After the all-women mariachi band finished
We left with our lunch in a sack, heading
North up and over the Kaibab Plateau toward
Zion, the stern panorama of velvet red cliffs
And pale mesas arrayed before our descent
To whatever was left of the surprises of life,
The skull face in the back seat intent
On a story about an orphaned wizard,
The bearded skull in the front intent
On finding one more morning’s resurrection.
No comments:
Post a Comment