one morning in December

 by Danny Romero

 

 

I am an Aztec peasant

walking a mountain path

-- El Tepeyac –

for fifty-seven years.

 

One morning in December

when I meet you

una india with a Spanish name

speaking to me in my own tongue

I know that God loves me.

 

“I am the Ever Virgin Mary,

Mother of God,” You say.

“…Tell the Bishop to

build a church here.”

 

So I travel back and forth

to Tenochtitlan, but the

power of an Aztec peasant

is difficult to measure.

 

I know you know more

about me and my world

than I know myself

when I see you again,

 

una india with a Spanish name

speaking to me in my own tongue:

“I am the Entirely Perfect Virgin,

Holy Mary, who will crush, stamp

out, abolish, and eradicate

the stone serpent (Quetzacoatl).”

 

I say, “Please forgive me for

avoiding you, walking along

the east and not the west

side of the mountain path,

as you know. My father has

been ill and needs me.

I could not meet you yesterday.”

Yet I will fill my tilma

with these Castillan roses

despite the cold. You say,

“Show these flowers to

no one else but the Bishop.”

 

The image later for all to see:

una india clothed in the sun,

dressed in turquoise, rose and gold,

the colors of Aztec royalty,

her feet standing on the moon,

her hands folded in prayer.