Amecameca

High above the city, I sit,
5027 meters and 12 stations
of the cross high. Below me,
the city sprawls, nicely compact.

It is a pallet of bright colors,
cement grays. In my ears rings
a carnival’s calliope, horn music,
church bells, laughing children
and scattering coins. The church
on the hill is as alive and full of people
as the carnival in the zocalo below
and a baby is being baptized.
The graveyard outside is old, old, old.
Graves are grass-covered and inscriptions
are worn away.

The clouds gather in the sky, gather
around the looming volcanoes
on the horizon. Gather around snow-studded
peaks. They collect rain above me and smell
like chiles, tamales and pineapple.
They small like tamarind, plantains
and beans, spicy and sweet, spring
and summer, dry and hot.
The town sprawls beneath me,
nicely compact.