A bunched plenary of clouds
huddles over San Cristobal
agrees to strike on dusty streets below
where on flood-safe raised stoneways
God’s creatures danced their destinies
for five centuries on even
more ancient pathways.

Two women, Mayan in their compact darkness,
probably sisters, moving in chiaroscuro
one wears a red huipil
a threaded mythology across her breasts
crimson ribbons interwoven in her braid
that curves like a mountain range
to merge in the earth of black wool skirt
her thickened feet fit
in smooth stone caressed by her foremother’s heel.

Other in skirt of cheap floral print
of everywhere’s global factory
wears a faded pink T-shirt
exhorting winning power to
Washington Redskins
her neon green sandals slip
as first drops strike.
Joining hands the sisters run
past a cardboard sign hand lettered
“your name on a grain of rice”
into the supermercado,

juntas, together; siempre, forever.