Mesoamerica

by R. Lee Sullivan

Ravaging your remains,
We riddle mortal peril.
Turning earth, prizing stone,
The stucco yields like flesh.
Codices molder among the ruins
And hieroglyphs are a cipher.
Time is ritual; mankind is a burden
Borne on the backs of the gods.
Nearby, the forest chatters
With mechanized malice.
Abandoning my labors,
I consider the surface of the sacrificial well
And reflect that perhaps
The mystery marches within ourselves.
Your walls regard me with quiet contempt
And I am shamed
As my pink skin blisters in the sun.

— Tikal, Guatemala, August 1996