where the saw-tooths of
the Sangre de Cristos
cut the clouds
I sat with the smiling bruja
by the quercus and the piñon
one dark thread seeping spirit
from her Navajo blanket
she held up to me
a small oblong of pasteboard
many moons dog-eared
with fading bloods
and blues
and fools-golds
what can you see?
give me a little square of her robe of Marian-sky
the folds drawn back like fond lips to show
the warmth of woman’s crimson secrecy
with knowledge gently open at its gate
in tender restraint (for she knows its worth
as much as its danger) and her lined eyes
in an intuitive circumnavigation of the world
for what is read can be a savage weapon
but the Haghia Sophia is life-inspiring…
a teasing hint of denied John Anglicus
a counter-echo of the beast-rider
veil breezed by thought
crowned and ages-old
I wondered who but
I said
why has it to be
that these picture cards
never look us in the eye?
the smiling bruja replied…
Petre Pater Patrum
Papisse Prodito Partum
laughed a gold-toothed laugh
and slipped the card
into the lost world
of the shuffled deck
where the saw-tooths
of the Sangre de Cristos
cut the clouds
Gold trophy winner
Adding your comment:
I know the literal translation, but the idea of the jagged edges of mountains cutting clouds like cutting a deck is so interesting. I picture the jagged red peaks with a low halo of clouds around it . This was a cool poem 
~Meg
