At Teotihuacan

By Jonathan Chan

AT TEOTIHUACAN 

giving shape to a world
at the boundary of light and darkness,
the cosmic pillars begin to tremble. 
one pyramid held up to the sun,
the other help up to the moon,
synchrony with the loom of mountains
harmony of sealed stone. 
at one end, the feathered serpent.
at the other, the lithe jaguar. 
grand avenue paved for the apex
of ritual, the witness of blood
and obsidian, before the whiplash
of light that almost since then has
recalled atomic fire. pure propulsion 
dissolving flesh, gods of rainwater, 
of falling water engulfed by the silt
of the lake. the trampling of a power
that builds, unbuilds, and builds
again. day in, day out, the crawling
on dead hands, the loosening of
clay, the carving of divinity in black
stone, language smothered, nestled
in the heart of another. roses tumble
down a garment: no longer a serpent,
a jaguar, but the serene face of 
a maiden, a new mother to all. 
roses sprout in the tropics. the
pyramids have borne this sun 
setting on one empire and 
the next, the coalition and crumble
of militias, the youngblood crying 
from the soil beneath, and always
the tremors, the tremors. an eye
beholds the sun through 
an obsidian disc. a perpetual light.
a single orange spot. 

Jonathan Chan is a writer and editor of poems and essays. He is the author of the poetry collection, going home (Landmark, 2022). His writing can be found at jonbcy.wordpress.com.

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