The Face On Aztlan

Your brown face boring holes in my mind
after all these Mexican years,
jaguars leaping,

quetzals springing from the dirt,
jungles eating up the sky,
a poem cut in half by obsidian.

The bloody pyramids
glistening in the Aztec sun
like a two-way mirror,

you see the truth
from either side of your face.
My soul a nickel and a penny,

sad resident of Aztlan,
the smoking lake you can not rake,
the bean brown lawn,

our sacrificial hearts
beating outside the body
to the rhythm of the dancing tribe.