Malchinqui--a poem

Malchinqui

Merciless the wind whips sheets
of dust, stings my eyes.
The sun narrows it´s heat, bares
down upon my pale shoulders.

Low, among the withered cornstalks, she
crouches, peering out from her hiding place
she waits. Quiet as the absence of rain.

Three gringas, standing
a half moon around her front door.
We are speaking with her mother.

Nearby her baby sister gnaws on an apple,
barefeet crusted in dry earth, the dust
sticks to the tiny corners of her mouth, sucking
at the sweet meat of fruit.
Her brother surveys the scene, he keeps a close
distance.
Old man draped in a worn, wool poncho
hovers in the doorway, his eyes
nearly hidden below folds of wrinkled skin.

She shyly observes our movements,
our jeans, fleece coats, sunglasses and
artisan hand-bags, our shiny hair
How we shift our backs to break the force of wind.

When she rises
from the cornstalks, she moves slowly.
Her legs are no more
than bones and skin.

Her eyes, set deep, send
dark shadows down her face,
She does not meet my eyes. She knows
we´ve been talking about her, how her body
is crumbling. Disapearing--like the cornstalks
in the heat and wind and dust.

When I look at her again, her eyes
She wears the sun like diamonds.