East of Matagalpa

Somewhere east of Matagalpa
The density of rainforest is broken only by brown riverine veins:
feeding tubes
In awe my eyes trace the rivers
The sinuous bends
The inorganic wisdom of how to form oneself inside thick heat,
sliding around rock or immovable ancient tree

The veins remain open
four and half meaningless Gregorian
centuries after the first misioneros arrived,
They didn’t prostrate themselves before this
They thought they might improve it,
imagined they might cram in
more god

They took something wild
and imposed linearity.

They self-amputated from The Mother,
and believed they were separate from and superior to Creation:

It hurts.

Four and half meaningless Gregorian centuries on,
the word “they” loses its meaning
MATAGALPA is a powerful indigenous name that vibrates the throat
conjuring warriors, masters of the kind of poison-tipped jungle weaponry
which used to suffice,
and the current citizenry are just as much the descendants of the rabid Spaniards
as the women they tortured.

East of Matagalpa
the rainforest holds histories of battery
but is sewn together, still, by brown riverine veins.