Chapels, cathedrals, churches in Cuenca
Paris, Budapest, so much altar gold
stained glass windows, some too red,
too blue, the why of white marble angel
and disciple sculptures a mystery, chapels
with candles inside smaller chapels, till
Guayasamin built his own, is buried, not in a wall
or floor like tombs of kings, but under a tree he planted
near La Capilla del Hombre, a memorial not for him
but to cruelty of man toward man, woman, child,
Los Ninos Muertos a sepia painting of sprawled dead
children, a far cry from my two-year old who hangs
her Disney necklace around a Buddha statue
every morning, an early deed on the path
to rebirth, not for her the gallery of pained
faces with edged planes one blue cheek,
one red, nose ready to be cleaved
eyes staring wide at the machete
surely not at any gold promise
that can unfold fingers tangled
in black and white torture.
Lavinia Kumar participates in the Delaware Valley and US1 poetry workshops. Her poetry has appeared in Waterways, Thatchwork (Delaware Valley Poets), Orbis, US1 Worksheets, and the US1 newspaper.