The Mayans

The scowl is caught in jadeite.
The flattened face on a green bead
displayed in the orchestral light of the museum
also boards the train on Steinway Street.
The warriors are going to the factories.
They sew and sew, these little people.
They sew themselves into oblivion
while our health towers over them.
Our honey, our nutritious breads, our Europe.

I say that history is a heavy stone in that museum,
A golden block that nobody can move.
It is the weight that locks the ossuary,
The brute strength of the altar stone in fine Italian chapels.
It breaks the sword of every century, splitting the jewels like candy
that even starving children are afraid to eat.

I say that all of history is frightening. It deserves
to be boxed up and viewed from behind steel chains.
For think of this: how history has harmed us.
Think how it will not change.
For every kindness we have paid with an extinction.
See that star exploding? It is history, hammering at our heads.

Subscriber Login

User Name

Password

Subscribe Now!

The only way to read this article and the full contents of each week's issue of The Nation online is by subscribing to the magazine. Subscribe now and read this article -- and every article published since for the past five years -- right now.

There's no obligation -- try The Nation for four weeks free.

• Get The Nation at home (and online!) for 68 cents a week!
• If you like this article, consider making a donation to The Nation.
• Reprint this article. Click here for rights and information.