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Full Moon In Bravado


Theresa Cecilia Garcia

The silence of fireflies personalized her sounds.
Emotions like some vicious animated kaleidoscope of feelings,
inharmonious babbling
translated into a thousand messages.
I will tell you the tale of the swamp child
who danced by raging bonfires
embracing the creatures that lurked within the dark shifting waters
accepting natures, both good and evil
on the backdrop of an entirely silver horizon ,
where stars and moons reflection
created a pool of light
in the currents of a lake.
A hiding place where she bowed her head away from the crowd
of betrayal and lack of trust.

He reached for a packet of cedar sticks from his breast pocket
broke one off and stuck it in his mouth.
She watched the cedar splinter travel over his lower lip
from one corner to the other
shoved by his tongue.

There was in him a passionate resistance to conformity
rooted in his physical traits.
His eyes dark with an enameled brilliance.
His smooth skin, honey colored.
His black hair independent, fiercely warlike.
He was known as the masked rebel leader
believed to be of mixed Indian and Spanish blood
with a sharply defined personality
solitary by nature and defiant.

He was interesting but a depressing transitional type
who was good at spinning elaborate tales
off the top of his head.
His personal stories complete fabrications
offered up with cold calculation
a callous bid to gain her trust, fake her out
win her over
but the sudden flashes of unguarded emotions
and anger were true
yet she yielded to his fiery spirit,
believed in his passions ,
and succumbed to his sensual sensations.

Stimulus of color
unusual alacrity and sensibility
forces of dazzling light
silvery green of wild myrtle, thyme, and rosemary
sparsely cultivated plateau
revealing strips of ploughed red earth
edged with trees,
dust storms swirled ,
a wooden stage and rows of tree-trunk benches situated on a dry, partly
deforested hilltop
where rain has become scarce.

On this platform the rebel commander assembles.
Five thousand people come from the surrounding villages.
Viva The Zapatistas !
Nahuas, Popolocas, Mixtecos, Mazatecos unite.
They are the rebel dignity, the forgotten heart.
Aztec dancers, music, speakers, art.
Full Moon In Bravado.

From a distance she watches
with ill fitting clothes
so tattered they look like rags,
plastic sandals ripping on the sides.
She has a peso to buy her baby an egg for supper,
instead of tortillas and salt.
As for herself,
she only needs him to nourish her soul,
and her daily diet of tortillas, salsa made with chilies, water and
He provides the hope.
He is the builder of a house called the world
in which all fit equally and each one different
so that memories may live
and so that which is alive shall never be lost,
obscured by the blackness of the night
in the shadow of Orizaba.

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