to: Dr, Pedro de Alsa

1 recall the gestures 

of children

and they are gestures of water offerings.

In the valley of the Rio Blanco 

where the Aconcagua is born, 

I went to drink, leapt with thirst 

into the frothy spume of a waterfall 

that fell long-haired and hard 

and broke, tense and white.

I pressed my mouth to the bubbling cascade, 

and the holy water burned me;

for three days my mouth bled 

because of that taste of Aconcagua.

In the open country of Mitla, 

a day full of grasshoppers, 

of sun, of walking, 

I knelt at a well;

an Indian came to hold me over the water; 

my head, like a fruit, 

was nestled in his palms. 

I drank what he drank; 

it was his face against my face, 

and as lightning shone I realized 

the flesh of Mitla was my caste.

On the island of Puerto Rico, 

during the sparkling blue siesta, 

my still body, the crazy waves, 

and with hands clapping

like a hundred mothers, 

there came a little girl of grace; 

next to my mouth she put 

a coconut shell brimming with water, 

and I drank it, like a child, 

maternal water, water from her hands. 

And my thirst has never been quenched 

with greater sweetness in body or soul.

In my childhood home, 

my mother used to bring me water.

Between sips, I glimpsed her above the jar. 

Her head rose to me;

the jar came further down. 

I still possess that valley; 

I keep my thirst and her face. 

This is probably eternity:

that we are still as we were.

I recall the gestures 

of children

and they are gestures of water offerings.

- home   -   picture gallery   -  writings   -  join-us   -   links   -

Page last edited February 14, 2000
by: PhoneBoy