In Guatemala City Today

I do not need to write a poem
to you from Kentucky today,
or about you from such distance,
but I will write a few lines for you
from the next room in your city, Guatemala.  

This morning I saw the left mala
below your left eye. It forms a profile of you
that is good for poetry, though in this instance,
you cup your face, for it gives away
your excitement when you read a poem,  

one with your name as the title. Its content,
obvious to you. Your hands also hide
your smile as beautiful as Old Seventy Creek
in the morning, the only sunlight
coming between a canopy of trees.  

Between your fingers, you voice no pleas,
no feelings for words I beg to write,
no verbal instructions  to reveal how meek
you are, mingled with Maya pride,
and so, I am left to pen my soul’s intent.