My Brothers, the Olmec
You came by woven reed boats
forced across angry water
driven by mighty winds.
Or a swift long skiff ferried you
here by twenty-four oarsmen,
twelve on each side, six front
& rear, powered by the rotation
of two shifts, all twenty-four
who tugged along dreamwork
on waves. They rowed around
sun & moon setting & rising,
inhale & exhale, all as one
song of the whole crew rotating,
pushing ahead until they saw
green land, their oars parting
blue rhythms of what’s to come
or being born on the other side
of the world. Yes, my brothers,
you of bittersweet herbs & chants
taken in sea breeze, what secrets
& taboos, myths, laws, & oaths
did you bring here? I believe it was
your laughing, thundering voices
in the drums. Where did you hide
those days of wild cats, serpents,
& plots? Did you arrive out of
nowhere, always here, stout
& tall, hewn of stone miles away,
but now rooted into green earth?
Mystery how you rose or sprung
up, somehow you became almost
another people, calling windswept
sea waves at your strong backs.
If you were always here, brothers,
you wouldn’t have danced feet
bloody under a full moon. No,
the charts were blue-black skies,
but not to worship hidden icons
before & beyond, & you cannot
walk hilly paths home any longer.
How did they capture you in
solid stone rolled into a green
valley? Yes, that’s right—rolled!
But first stones were rounded.
No, sacred work is never easy.
My Olmec brothers, I saw you
with my own eyes, true & dark,
in the Museum of Archaeology
of Mexico City, tall & righteous,
& I love the red-hot peppers
baked into your maize bread.
