Jennifer Ley

An Accounting

You were the jaguar's son,
the Jade King, and I
the augurer.

Chak was weary and sent
no rain, so I bled
the tongues of doves

I read the veins
in the scrotum of a bull

sang down the heavens
looking for a morning star

but still the frogs
were silent.

Now wise men and women
come, measure the weight
of the bull's balls

carbon date the feathers
I left as futile messengers.
They mark the ascendant stars.

Chak was not weary, they
proclaim, this culture
marked its zenith

then slipped into nadir,
could not find
heaven's scale of balance.

The jaguar's son lies buried,
silent under his green mask

and I, I am in that circle
of hell where Chak sent me
to heft the uncertain weight
of what we were
when you were howling.