Friday, May 18, 2012
What forebear of my wife’s in wet Huancayo was named Peñaloza?—from which by Spanish-Peruvian
erosion (perhaps none?)
Rosa, Augusto’s daughter, from Peñaloza’s in
A somewhat distinguished name; the vortex of history
Passed and passed them by. They left their mark no
Hurt him or helped him, whatever the case, rolled over
His head and he fought back, but entirely unnoticed;
He lost his lands, little remains.
I should like to meet them,
Their ancient ghosts and drink their inflaming drinks,
Talk about the Inca nobles and Wanka politics and the
Damned Chileans; foreigners: I think their tales of anguish
Would be as odd as ours today, and even more so
Unrealistic. I’m sure their thinking was as keen as ours
Perhaps a tinge more unsuspecting.
No doubt, they were all
Christians. Dreaming back into history—that is,
After the Spanish had to force feed them—God, Jesus!
And somehow, someway, Peñaloza got christened—
Which means peace with God. He never found it,
Let’s hope he finds it without us knowing.
The oldest has been dead now a few centuries,
Moldering in some forgotten Argentinean graveyard,
among vacant winds and rain-substance.
Deep under ever name, swims the dead, down the dark
Tides and bloodshot ages of time immersed in God’s words.