Tepeyóllotl, the eighth hour of the night, creeps
from the heart of the mountain in search of echoes.
Hard unblinking eyes, pitiless obsidian beads,
scan the terrain. Without warning he crouches
with joined fists to bounce the floor of a megalopolis.
In the eighth hour of the morning thousands of lives
ended or defined by two minutes of tectonic jolting.
Towers full of families fall obediently to their knees.
Smashed bones and concrete dust fill the lungs
of the living. The clean-up begins; the aftershocks follow.
Fragment of ‘Tlatelolco Triptych’, published in Blood Oranges.
Photograph © Marco Antonio Cruz.