Embroidered

i don't know what her name was. she planted herself among the whites and frowned. out came her needles. down came her head. and then the crinkling sounds of a task full of purpose. pedantic purpose. she was embuing the world with colour.

she has traveled maps of roads to plant herself there, on the streets of a town that was built from the ruins of an ancient One. the colonial spanish village recycled from the carnage of a centuries-old city of the Mayas.

she has swept her feet along well-trodden paths from Chiapas. bloodied her blisters and sweated her waters. dragging this white monster raging to be unleashed in the sweltering sun. she has cursed Santa Maria and the heartless souls of drivers that sped along heedlessly ignoring the gnarled, outstreched arm. she has flooded with blessing that kindred mexican spirit who slowed down enough to toss her onto his trunk. she bloodied his trunk.

now she sits on the side of the street bloodying her hands instead. spreading reds yellows and beautiful blues to sell them to people like me. who will spread them or wear them or wrap them or rip them oblivious to the burning blood, the dust and the sweat.

for the price of a movie ticket.

hence the saying by Porfirio Diaz that all mexicans can agree with:

"Poor Mexico, so far from God, and so close to the United States"