Under the Mask.

Caught woodenly in time,

lifeless masked figures

wait patiently for like spirits recognized

in those bits of carved cottonwood and paint—

butterfly maiden, corn mother, eagle dancer,

fierce ogre, horned owl, striped clown,

a pantheon of fragmented faces

equaling the whole of humanity.

The true kachina walk softly,

treading among the People,

seeking solace on desolate mesas

at the Center of the Universe—

a barren place surrounded by painted sands

where believers shoulder the heavy burden

of turning the world under bare feet,

to the oblivion of modern civilization.

Dancers don their disguises,

borrowed from the spirit world,

and with a measured breath,

a tempo of tradition,

beat time into the dust and ash,

a plea for cleansing rains,

the turning of the seasons,

and the salvation of humankind.

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Editorial Apprentice: Jamie Khoo/Editor: Emily Bartran

Photo: martisimas/Flickr