Frangipani Bloom at Night
Charles Suddeth
The priest marches in Tenochtitlan’s parade,
Villagers shower his head with frangipani,
Pink blossoms clinging to his hair,
Their fragrance fondles his nostrils.
When he reaches the pyramid’s base,
The crowd chants and claps and shouts,
While he climbs fifty-two steps,
Each strewn with orange marigolds.
Tied to the altar, a maiden awaits,
Her eyes glassy, her lips blistered,
painful reminders of his young daughter,
His lips reciting prayers to the sun.
He raises his blade above his head,
Its gleaming black obsidian ready.
The knife plunges straight down,
The scent of frangipani mingles with blood.
C. T. Suddeth 
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