Her Smoke Poem by Taylor Rosewood

Maria's in Guatemala still
trying to scale volcanoes,
half buried in terraced fields
of petty rage and discontent.

Her passport has expired, and
her family's grown so tired.
News of daily sightings bring
fatigue and fresh lament.

'Her mangoes tasted sweeter, '
say the women in the markets,
'and it scared the other sellers
in these backwards little towns.'

Old men who wear serapes
simply sit and tell me nothing.
The muscles in their faces
persist in etching stony frowns.

And city urchins weren't much
better, but at least they called her
'mother, ' then they saw her Sketchers
muddy in the squalor of some room.

'She was trying to use her phone,
and I didn't know what to do, '
stated the scrawny pre-teen urchin
who sold her shoes to buy some glue.

No crosses mark her grave
because Maria was never saved.
Her faith was bravery, and that's the
way she wished to die.

Green-eyed locals needed blood,
and hers was rich with love. Now
her smoke makes lovely tresses
in the Guatemalan sky.