Crowned pig on a talavera tile,
one solo puerco insignia
set in the stone church stairs…
on the steps where
two puppy bulldogs attract girls
to the boy sitting,
whose corn on a stick pops, bitten,
’til its honeycomb’s dry.
Church doors of slabbed wood,
long hanging slices of carne separating.
Four hundred years of drying
on iron pins…for someone’s carnality,
and still the church pigeons pass scat.
Look: an iron ring in a colossal stone,
fat as a fed snake,
it fastens some supreme possession…
but, I ask: who forged in the heat?
who hammered it-in to no applause, chingon,
and who ordered it placed?
Crowds step around it and,
on the street, the spindly trees,
when this racket:
someone set loose from loosely piled cages
what won’t be captured twice:
an outraged macaw
pursuing its native fruit.