José Clemente Orozco sucks out my brain,
those remnant cells not addled
by ten hours’ flight sou’west from winter,
splatters them over the orphanage ceiling,
fills their essence with colour and meaning.
My body lies flat on its back directly below,
dislocated by jet-lag and head-cold,
transfixed by the nightmare knowledge
on the multi-hued human-stained walls:
credulity, cruelty, refusal to learn;
readiness to follow, proclivity to stab;
hatred, arrogance, tragedy;
religion, exclusion, despair;
surrender to any higher power
that grants the right to kill.
Blood sweats from the heavy wooden cross
King Philip hugs to his groin,
anointing with red tears
a troop of guided tourists
who notice only each other.
I rise like an unburied Lazarus,
stagger into a quiet cloister courtyard,
marvel at an unperturbed sky,
reach for the light on your skin.