I stopped in the street
to take a photo of protest art,
to share with my revolutionary friends
demanding freedom
from the chains of capitalism
that was wheat pasted on the stone walls of an old catholic church
on a cobblestone road
in southern mexico
I had to step back
to fit the whole image
where I stood with my iPhone
next to a woman sitting
in traditional clothing
the bright floral stitching
a harsh contrast to the frozen expressions
two children still
beside her,
another tiny body still,
against her chest
her free palm
out and open and facing the heaven, almost disconnected
from the rest of her
a family passes in front
of us there together
frozen in the frame
led by a little girl,
the same age
as the one silently fading
into the cracks of the colonial stones she leans against,
aggressively pulling along a shiny, pink, plastic pony
on wheels
the wheels don’t travel as smoothly along the cobblestone
as they did along the pavement
her free palm
is holding ice cream
it is a very hot day
after all
her adults chasing after
in muted colors
tired from all the bags they carry
and oh how pretty this city is
all cobblestone and charming
narrow streets of saturated color
fruit reds and earth yellows
wrought iron
twisted
into delicate patterns
that my heart already knows
and deeply loves
all of this
to cover sacred soil
they all will tell you
anything grows here
and it does
through the cracks
sunburst bougivillas
tearing apart stone
where the bones wait
but still
cannot,
will not,
rise to the surface
bones don’t belong in quaint streets
the wind brings the soft harmonies
of an accordion
the notes reach deep into my humanity and echos through the parts of myself
I still
do not know
how to love
it is always like this
with the accordion
each note sings to my joy
to my sorrow
they are the same
always the same
a small boy crosses in front
of me frozen
he is holding a plastic bowl
I see the musician now
that’s the thing
with the accordion
hard to know where it’s coming from
the notes disperse into the air
saturating the molecules like moisture
they hang low and heavy in the streets
his hair and his shirt are wet from ringing a soaked towel over his head
it is a very hot day
after all
palms move in and out and in
forcing breath
into sweet melody
his expression frozen
silently fading
into the cracks
of the colonial stones he leans against,
legs outstretched
his soles are worn through
the child’s plastic bowl is empty
I hear the two coins
11 pesos
slide from my fingers
and thud against the bottom
I thought
what would it feel like,
for both of us
if instead
I gave the 500 pesos
burning in my pocket
what would it feel like
for both of us
if instead
we had what we were born deserving
but still
do not know
but instead
I kept walking
golden pedals floated
lluvia de oro
lloviendo oro
lloriendo oro
some days still
I can’t stop crying
grounded in the moment
in pain and beauty of paradox
let us always still
dance
and dance
I bought a beautiful pair of gold earrings
steps away from the small boy
with the still
empty bowl
he said they were hand made
tell me Fidel
what does it feel like
to arrive
© 2019 Georgia Faye Hirsty
Journey Hard Speak Easy 