The Galisteo basin
Is a shallow dish that scoops up
Thousands of acres of rusty soil
Sifted between the broken basalt teeth
Of mountain ranges long vanished
A landscape scarified by a million sheep
Denuded in turn by horse and cattle
That consumed the blankets of grass
And left a world coverless and cold
Etched by sunlight, wind and running waters
In March walking the Basin
Pale green grasses crunch underfoot
Crisp with frost, cold with the wind
And the soft hiss of a dark wing
Or the killing cry of a golden eagle
Suggesting some kind of meaning
If you pay attention, you can hear voices
Baked in staccato codes left behind
Flecked into rough clay shards
Flaked into blades and arrowheads
Hidden, sometimes buried deep in the soil
For nine thousand years
Human people walked this place
And their ancestors demand regard
As Indian, Hispanic and Chicano ghosts
Wait quietly for a better question
And now me, a gentler invader
Stumbling around like a baby
Wandering into this shallow womb
Cooing over ancient symbols
Wandering through adobe fantasies
Deaf to countless hard stories
Detailed in the commemorative stones
Blind to a thousand bitter ends
That lie dumb in the field of means
A ghost myself
Without the ears to listen
Without a mouth to speak
Without eyes that see
Without a clue
Who will lead this pale child?
Without walking him off the lip of a ravine
As a mercy.
Jeff Hamaoui is one of the cofounders of MEA and the Chief Education & Innovation Officer.