Palace of the Governors, City of Holy Faith

O noble capitol house that Peralta built you are long
inhabited fortress and palace promenade

If trees could talk    they would whisper handfuls
multi-tongued through thick adobe walls

Spanish   Tiwa   Tewa   bugle
of Confederates and curators talking

of lattice and lace   wide dining
table for history    you whisper us into a prince’s room

Old is the adjective    First born on the square
Fringed by burros carting firewood to winter casas

Occupation is your middle name   Po’ Pay’s revenge
for all the icons taken       Wallace’s respite muse

crucifixion written in secret light
Fiestas in the front yard Wagons in the courtyard

Yellow leaves still falling as legislators eased
horses into stables lined anxious washboards

Your inhabitants changed like stunning sunsets

and chilly dawns

Today a concho belt of natives own your long stoop
years inlaid with abalone and coral All eyes shaded

by ancient portal One old trail of men ending here
Ghosts of women in broomstick skirts and children

hidden religions revived mariachi guitars

bringing lightning

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