OH MAYAN by Mare Cromwell

 This poem was written in my mid-30's, when I was living off the grid in a remote corner of Belize…

 The tiny agro-forestry research center where I lived was upstream of a Mayan village (refugees from Guatamala, who moved to that part of Belize in the 50's). Essentially, the Belizean government had sold the timber rights of the tropical rainforest upstream to a Malaysian company, very quietly.

It was the impetus for some of the local leaders to start to ally with Non- Governmental Organizations in the USA to become effective activists.

I'm not certain what the final resolution was to the logging contract, as this was 1994 when I was there. I would like to think all of that forest has been preserved by this time. Hope, at least.

~Art by Paula Nicho Cumes~

Oh Mayan

Oh Mayan Woman,

ankles washed by swirling river

while you beat the farm

out of your husband's soiled

pants.

Oh Mayan Woman,

as you scour your dishes,

your children bathe,

pollywogs in early sun

before Catholic

school.

The agouti your father hunts,

fresh meat shared,

you scrub the fat and blood

in the current of the

Columbia.

Your short, stout mothers

in pastel dresses

scrub on ageless flat rocks

in shallow river bends.

And turn

to disrobe

bare-breasted

and kick their heels,

dive

and wash their long black locks.

The river,

it runs so clear,

so quick in high rain,

so languid in the sweltering

April days.

It is your soul,

more than the soil.

Oh Mayan Woman,

what will you do

when they cut the trees,

and the water runs,

brown,

like your husband's clothes, so

soiled?

What will you do

when the flow is choked and

barely ebbs past

the village

bend?

What will you do when

the primary wilds

are entered

in logging force,

the axes of testosterone

power

yielding

massacre?

Will you know the pain?

Will you see the rape

before it starts --

to hug the chests

and limbs of fellow forest?

To block the cut

before the wounds are

scarred throughout

your head

waters?

Or will the attack

be so

silent,

and you so innocent --

that your forest maidenheads

will be ripped

before a scream can cry out

loud?

Oh Mayan Woman,

Beware the wolves,

Know of the foreign fangs

with your men,

and fight the insidious teeth of those

so far

removed.

Learn to hold those trees,

and meet the tongues

that fork around  your

quiet ways.

Wake up!

Wake Up!

The trees they call you.

The waters cry your name

each night as you climb

the banks

with dishes clean,

your day

done,

their days,

unknown.
~

~Art by Paula Nicho Cumes~

Mare Cromwell is an award-winning author, plant intuitive, sacred gardener, and worm herder. She has studied for seventeen years with Native American medicine people and her most recent book is Messages from Mother: Earth Mother. Her first book is: If I Gave You God’s Phone Number: Searching for Spirituality in America. She calls Western Maryland home and thinks Sacred Silliness absolutely ranks. You may connect with Mare through her Messages From Mother website here, or her For The Earth blog here. 

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