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Aztecas on a Hot Night in Phoenix

 

by Pam Davenport

 

Sudden lights, street and Kliegs,

illuminate lofty skinny crimson feathers

at a complex we drive past daily.

We park at the carniceria,

walk to where cars ring the apartments’ parking lot.

In the dirt people move, circle, dance.

Men, women, and one small boy hold

gourd drums, seed pods ring their ankles,

their feet stomp to a slow heartbeat,

kick up sand, heads swathed in smoke and ash,

dust like gold around their heads.

Conspicuous, unsure, we want to stay,

we join the crowd, lean against trucks and watch.

A young girl points to the dancers

and asks me a question in Spanish.

I can’t help, don’t know if it is help she wants,

I tell her No sé.

Later she returns and says

This is for the people.

Dancers’ faces marked with lightening,

shells and beads on arms, bodies, legs.

Turquoise, ginger, emerald masks,

skulls attached to foreheads.

We turn to leave, I look back,

a police car drives into the lot,

I am not the people.

A boy stands before me,

hands me a paper plate

sagging under the weight

of potato salad and beans.

 

 

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