Chac Mool Poem by Patti Masterman

The cenote is a standing blackness, at the end of a path
Reflecting stars amongst entwined greenery
Where the female sacrifices once were assembled
And pitched in, to talk to the gods for the people
To secure favors and assure prosperity.
Years later, men came to dig out the gold and trinkets
The still fragrant incense, and even the skeletons.

Inside the pyramid, a smaller pyramid waits:
Shelters jaguar altar of dark burnished blood
Stones silent now of their human cries
Time gives things rare value
Which were once tools of culture
And archaic ceremonial rites
Are accidentally honored by the intrepid tourist.

High on the platform, reclines Chac Mool
Knees by his chest, offering plate held steady
To accept the cooling hearts
Of the preferred victims
His impassive face looks patient
With fierce hunger, he has been waiting for centuries
He knows there will always be more.