In her leather brace

Under a Tehuana dress

She sits by her easel

Looking out into the garden of Casa Azul—

Señor Xolotl by her feet.

She embodies her child 

In the master, Diego, with a third eye, 

Having carried the souls 

Of her unborn children

To her Mother, Coatlicue, 

Who embraces her, in comfort—

Both sheltered by the universe’s 

Cosmic mother.

She captures her own vision

Of the nucleus of creation, 

Revealing elements 

Even Moses would not have known.

The sun stone blossoms from her canvas

In yellow and orange rays,

Striking omniscient fingers,

Bringing forth the center of cosmic time—

Emerging in the face of the Sun God, Tonatiuh.

His tongue, the sacrificial blade,

Demanding hearts of the living

To keep the cycles in motion.

The Mother holds this creation 

Firmly in balance,

While Venus glides nude on a shell

And mother Tonantzin lactates

To nurture their world.

Not far from her casa,

San Juan Diego walks up on Tepeyac hill 

To understand the world 

He once knew, now transformed.

His cloak catches the wind—

Returns bearing the image of the Virgin.

She ascends the hill seeking Our Lady

Only to contemplate Guadalupe,

In her creations on canvas.

Our Lady, now revered

As Tonantzin’s transfiguration,

Provides light in votive candles,

And blessings to millions in their prayers.

The dancers with crowns of feathers 

Streak out and sway behind,

Keeping pace, heads in rhythm

Moving to the beat of huehuetl, mesmerized.

Copal smoke rises,

Engulfing the blue tiled domes of the Basilica, 

The weight of their thumping feet,

And the deep, resonant calls of the conches 

Have, with time, awakened the bones, 

Of Tenochtitlan’s temples, 

Tilting the buildings they now hold

Summoning the waters to rise again.

From Mother’s womb, 

The Moon emerges—

Coyolxauhqui, reassembled 

From her scattered pieces on a circular stone 

Restored by her brother, Huitzilopochtli.

She now sits by his side

Atop Templo Mayor.

Coatlicue looks out at the lake, 

Now floats on her back, smiling—

With her bosoms covered in blue tiles,

Bare to the sky,

High above the water, lactating,

As she is the Serpent Skirt.

Unraveling the fabric of time

Of a city, whose reflection she now sees

In the blue sky as she floats—

Created in her image.