Crucifixion Across the Border

My name is Navidad Maria Cid.
I follow my mother
into jungle’s rain-cooled winds,
tickling my cheeks as we pass
iridescent candles and
tiny altars carved
by her hand.

In the Shaman’s hut,
we lie on musky loam
surrounded by thatched walls,
drink warm cocoa laced with
the magic herb, Salvia,
until pretty colors swirl,
and my mother sings songs
with her hands,
telling hero stories
about my father,
a grapefruit picker
in distant lands,
who balances every day
on ladder rungs,
weight of his heavy sack
tipping him, as
he dreams of Chiapas.

In that faraway place,
no one will care
if he dies, falling
from the ladder,
his blood and bones
rotted on earth’s cold breast.

But in the jungle,
I will know
he was crucified.