In Guatemala

Jacaranda

Women pick fallen petals from the bright sun tiles
of the central plazas in Solola, in Antigua
and Santiago Atitlan. They tuck the washed purple
into plastic bags, packing the perfumed flesh
together, taking the flowers home to the kitchen.

In the cooperative farmacia, I can buy a tiny bottle
of the sour tintura, count 25 drops into a glass
of naranja, 25 drops into bottles of Gatorade, into palms
held out, cupping water. No one wants an upset stomach;
we turn to the Mayan remedies. The trees
spread their evening-cloud light over courtyards,
lakefront parks, over winding unpaved highways.

The bare ground where children squat, playing
with a new litter of puppies, feels the redemption
of jacaranda. Pale and soothing, cooler than the concrete floors
of their huts, mothers weave the lavender blossoms
with the long tail feathers of quetzal birds, with jaguar kings,
and stair-stepped temples of mottled stone to make
tapestries, offering these to visitors passing by.

LPF