The Shining Path Trials

In the courtroom Indian women
wear felt hats decorated with flowers,
purples and pinks peep out from the crowd.
Men in patched trousers and worn sandals
flinch as the story unfolds.
Go tell it on the mountain.

In the Ayacucho province,
ragged with smoke grey mountains,
deep jungle cloaked with valleys,
is a little village named Chiakee.
Go tell it on the mountain.

Hooded rebels, faces hidden
arrive before dawn as
husbands and wives, hands held tight
mouths tilted upwards, towards Him,
sing a hymn of devotion.
Round notes explode into the air,
a mixture of prayer and chant in
Quechua and Spanish.
Go tell it on the mountain.

Black heads, black hoods,
"Yanayuma" the villagers call them
behind their backs
instruct the women to continue with their hymn
as they separate the men,
23 in all.
Go tell it on the mountain.

Wives take a last look
into eyes they've loved, laughed with,
as Rebels kill each man,
crush heads with rocks
cut throats, cut tongues,
stab hearts, backs.
Intestines on display
Husbands die slowly,
the hymn sung softly now, with gags and tears.
Go tell it on the mountain.

Soldiers guard the dumps until
dogs and pigs are finished rooting them,
the scent of flesh intoxicating,
leaving nothing but bare bones.
Before fleeing, they take
blankets, ponchos, sewing machines, radios
Everything.
Go tell it on the mountain.

In the courtroom,
20 years later and
a stadium-full of people gone,
30,000 to be exact,
a woman in her forties now,
with button eyes and missing teeth,
lists off the names of the 23 men
that went missing that night.
She sings the hymn
once again.

First published in T-Zero Xpandazine, 2002 and then published in Citizen32 in 2004.