A few years back I was fortunate to visit the Yucatan, now billed as the “Mayan Riviera.” An anthropology buff, I was thrilled to tour the ruins of Tulum and Chichen Itza. It was Christmas and I was astonished by the degree of Maryolotry, the inspiration for this poem from my collection Three Blocks West of Wonderland.

It bears repeating, especially in these turbulent times; Peace on earth, Goodwill to men, including women and children.

FIRST CAME MARY

Enchanted morning swim, matrix of turquoise

lagoon. Silver palometas, yellow damselfish

caress my legs. Casa Ocio walls whitewashed

in cactus milk. Coconuts on the lawn.

Palm fronds bowing, rippling like sea anemones.

Heavy mahogany Hemingway digs.

Gecko chirps from behind a gilt frame.

Cool terrazzo marble pulls sand from toes.

Double rain showerhead. Full throttle bottle bar

under a palapa. I ponder the power

of local masonry to withstand hurricanes,

why it seems odd to name them after men.

 

Beneath an arbor of pink bougainvillea

sit my dubious nephew, delicate girlfriend,

doubts sinking slowly into the deep

purple cushions. We are going to town. To Playa.

Soft brown doves adorn neon.

Turtles bask on green tile mosaic. Red house

hosts a party tableau of orange Fanta, blue corn

flowers, flags of paper lace, chocolate pan de huevos.

We smell agave, chili, vanilla, coriander and anise,

hear mariachis blaze a mighty La Bamba. Gobble

pumpkin tamales, snow-white beach cooling our heels.

Mongrels expire at the feet of professional urchins

soliciting pesos. I will not cry, select a white handkerchief

festooned with poinsettias embroidered by his mother.

No, I can’t buy them all. Though downcast he will not cry.

Our Lady of Guadalupe provides. Protects.

 

Christmastime but it’s Mary I see. Everywhere. To the faithful

the forever virgin manifests in reefs, rays and schools

of gobies and fairy basslet. In the crystalline water

of a cenote near Merida. In the mynah’s cry.

They live in Mother Mary’s shadow, warm as her embrace.

Queen of the Americas imperial as the iguana

gnawing hibiscus, sunning atop Tulum’s serpentine stairways.

She is wing carved into rock, three pelicans soaring above.

 

Even Mary, standing on the moon, presiding over the jungle

in a cloak of stars, could not stop the calendar,

marauding anthropologists or games to the death.

On every altar she towers over the crucifix, candles,

iron crosses, golden grapes. She is under their skin,

her miraculous portrait inked onto their muscles.

Hammered in copper, in tin. On murals.

Santa Maria assures and comforts all

her Mexican children. Heals. Entirely and ever

Virgin Mary is the horizon, sea and sky colliding

in azure, cobalt blues. Sacred to all. Taxi drivers.

Marimba players. Deejays and charros. She waves

from the cruise ships, watches over fire dancing,

blesses the portrait of two young lovers lost

in a car crash. Her people feel the harbour of her arms

around them. Her mercy. Infinite. Close.

First comes Mary. Holy Mary. Mother of God.