Two Lyrics on Death from Central America

Macaws by the Gate of Copán 

In Copán trees macaws fly, scream, and groom, 

their scarlet feathers looking much like blood 

that flowed here long ago and recently. 

The feathers of their tails stream out behind. 

The passerby feels blest though he is not. 

Before his blood flows just like everyone’s, 

like that that flowed in grooves on altar-stones, 

and blood that flowed from army massacres, 

as long as flesh unruptured holds, 

he’ll make himself as busy as these birds. 

Día de los Muertos 

 On Dia de los Muertos some here choose 

to picnic with their loved ones by their graves, 

and some then strive with Gallo beer to kill 

mosquitoes of the mind that can draw blood. 

Out front a wobbly Rambo sheds his shirt 

and dares the other men to come and fight. 

In corners of red eyes I see bright tears. 

Thin dogs with hanging dugs pace back and forth. 

Their glance explains -- there’s nothing more to say.