You returned from Peru
where the air is thin,
and the light a rinsed yellow
of glacial sun.
A country where breathing
is an occupation.
Where the sea puts no claim
to the bitter rocks of Inca destiny.
Beyond her cities
a black wall of history
separates her adobe houses.
The angular face of the Inca
peers out with the shadows
of the Spanish conquistador
and missionary.
You must be strong
to go to Peru.
Cover your tender flesh,
and look aside from the brutality
of roots that refuse to come down
from the high ravines
and dusty roads.
The snakes and pumas
of the lowlands,
stay from those peaks.
Machu Picchu suffers in its blanket
of drought and frost.
It should frighten such tender buds
as we.
How did the Incas
live hand in hand with the terrible gods
who asked for their suffering
and sacrifice to the sun?
And refuse to descend
to the immaculate conception
of Christ,
protected in the grottos of Mary.
Worlds separated by creation.
The cold world of the Andes,
and the passion of our redeemer.