We were heathens in that place of pilgrimage
eating tamales so hot our noses ran for miles
down State Road 98.
The hunger for heat, for fire, was stronger than
a desire for dirt, even holy dirt dug
out of the Blood of Christ mountains.
Two dollars fifty bought us a lot of heat and
a lot of surprise, but we practiced playing it
cool, two gringos in the desert.
Votives and ex-votos lit the patio
outside the restrooms where we splashed our faces
and washed the burn from our hands
We left Chimayó--with holy dust on our toes,
the blood of Christ flowing beneath our wheels--
profane pilgrims of Fire.
No comments:
Post a Comment