La historia de los ángeles

It goes:

We are made of reeds and pull
the air into our lungs through them; we descend
from a long line of lamps with wicks and oil
that, from the alcoves,
illuminate the corridors between worlds.

Our habitat is filled:

with rivers, meadows, mountains, horses, antelope, and trees.
Juniper child on his knees guards a beetle in the dust.
Grandmother plants flowers and mud
crawls over our days.

We recognize:

Morning brings a field to fruition;
the lunar eye peers through the harvest crack.
Infant bones become oak; twisted necks feed our concave
chicken plates and knives.

Yes. Our perfection grows from a tiny seed; a breeze pushes
into the eddy that connects the houses and pueblos, carries us
swirling, glinting, minutely reverberant into evanescence.

Then we begin to flourish:

We spit our naked spirit into the well and drink.
You are invited to join the meal, to taste the callus
of our corn and continue your story.

This is the moment when we shake the leaves
and loam from our ear.

FROM The First Book of Muwadi

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