what if palms were laid out in front of you,
tenderly and intentionally onto the dry, dusty earth
as you rolled forward?
you and all the others,
crammed in a fume-coughing bus,
a communal space for sharp-lined graffiti,
plastic bags of semillas
and fruta con chili,
the cool mountain breeze,
and women offering their laps for the infants of mothers
unable to find a seat.
what if the bus slowed,
acknowledging this foreign, sacred moment?
what if the people craned their necks
out of the bus windows to see?
would the silence be reverent?
or would cheers erupt from those welcoming
this holy bunch of pilgrims?
would you know then?
that you are perfect.
in your quirks and your defeat.
would you feel yourself coming home
to your own magnificent soul?
*a moment of palms
