Snaking through mesquite
and saguaro, a long line
of jibber-jabber, pink-
necked tourists muffle
the words of the Zapotec
guide who shows us
a geometry of amaranth
and maize
we have always planted
in sacred shapes and symbols
A couple is squabbling
and teenagers flirt
as we troop through
a greenhouse of orchids
and damp
we capture the rain as
we always have, and cool
in summer with geo-thermal
Outside in the healing
garden, she picks a leaf
from a flowering plant—
crushing delicate green
with her fingers
smell this chepil—
a seasoning and vegetable
my people have eaten
for thousands of years
Folks wander and chat
while she tells the old stories—
what flourished and what
remains. Every time
she says—Oaxaca—
soft syllables float
from the back of her throat
then blossom and linger
still.
***
