He arrived after rain had washed the streets:
the tell-tale signs of blood were gone.
The priests discovered in him no mere visitor,
no simple prisoner of ignorance:
his purity of heart, his innocence were beauty.
They laced his hair with quetzal feathers,
bright red and brilliant green.
From behind, so that he could not see,
they anointed him with scented word of mouth.
Children clung to him like rain-wrenched petals;
young men jostled for his friendship;
old men deferred to him;
and women came to him
but could not return his love
because they knew his future.
He, unknowing, took note but did not question.
To them all, as though a team, he gave his loyalty.
But the season of rains approached again.
Still unaware, he allowed the priests
to lead him up the temple pyramid.
They pinned him to the stone
and drugged his brain with bitterness
by accusing him of weakness, treachery and pride.
They carved open his chest and ripped away his heart.
They carried it before them down the steps
and spread his blood like slander through the streets.
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