Fractured before we are born.
Shattered, maybe crazed at the end.
In between all is light and luminaria,
except in the northern reaches of New Mexico
where the Tradicionalistas insist on lighting
small fires in the farolito lined streets,
causing dark spots before my bedazzled eyes.
Rattled by your flashing badge,
red and blue over and over again,
what can I do but plead guilty
in the face of this third degree light,
mend the chipped surface of my conscience,
and behave as if nothing happened on the way
to pick up your cake at the bakery –
its tens of candles sparkling
like stars hanging on the lip of sky over the Sargasso Sea.
The same sea our ancestors feared for the monsters
harbored in its darkness as they lay at anchor
under a gibbous moon in all their mothic finery.
When the air clears and all the gifts have been opened,
we see our glass etched by the spider’s web,
we see that fashions change,
and the brighter candles burn the less we see.