Mouth of the Well

I stand on the peak
of Kukúlcan’s pyramid,
looking east
at the Mayan ball court, gazing
on its half crumbled temples.
I feel nothing
of the past, only distance
and a sobering wind.
Behind me, a woman is sobbing.

The acoustics
of the pyramid amplify
her vertigo. With each stammer
of terror that escapes from her mouth,
a remembrance is stirred
in the diffident sky.

I don't know how
she climbed this monument
of Mayan culture, this calendar
of the seasonal march, but soon
she must descend.

Below, on the ground, tourists
crane their necks
under the sun’s blistering glare
to see a woman collapsed
beneath the hysterical weight of her fear.

Someone takes a picture of her
sitting on the humid stone platform, quaking,
with knees pulled tight
to her chest.

Her husband tries to comfort her
and kneels
at her side, pleading
gently in German
but I understand none of it
so I clap my hands

and hear the Quetzal bird
shrieking,
an echo of stone. It rings

through the engraved rock temple
at the apex, a spirit
of Maya, sacrificed
by meaning, torn
from the misery of victims, shattered
in a heap below.

Deep within the structure,
a green jaguar waits, with Chaac-Mool,
for a camera click.