I placed two octagonal centavos
in the vendedor callejero’s
weathered brown hand.
He opened the door
of the two-tiered cage
underneath an intricately carved wooden castle
to release the light yellow canary.
It hopped onto the embroidered Mayan cloth
toward a box overfull with colored slips of paper
folded and numbered
packed like tea bags
promising advanced knowledge
of destined perils and joys.
I watched
entranced
as your face emerged
beaked and avian
as perfectly suited to the little hustler
as your it was to your real frame.
The con canary
acted like it had for the tourist before me.
Maybe it didn’t know I knew.
Shape shifter.
Betrayer.
Pecking toward a future
you would again select for me.
But no.
I will not open the paper
from the fortune-telling canary
with your face.
I think this is good policy.
It is weakness enough
to watch a trained bird
select another’s fortune
for 50 centavos
and to believe
that, with one less paper slip in the box,
now is a good time
to learn mine.
Weakness to falter in mountain crisp air
under the weight of guilt and privilege
while women bear tamales and tortillas
on their heads
their spines straight and regal
colorful bundles and wraps and skirts
in patterns that don’t match.
Poverty isn’t supposed to match.
You are not supposed to reincarnate
as a fortune-pecking canary
in Huehuetenango –
place of the ancients –
the western highlands of Guatemala
Mayan before Spanish
one people before conquest
traditions and languages
erased
interbred
faded
brought out for La Norteamericana
who drops mountains of coins
I cannot count
in a place
I have not visited
except on this page.