ACOMA


For many distant travelers
The way to Acoma is merely
Interstate-40,
A fourlane ribbon 
Of asphalt
Squeezed in between wire
Fences and telephone lines,
Running like a scar
Across the flesh
Of an ancient landscape;
They almost never know
The old way south by north
Where you can fly today
From the pit
Of a uranium stripmine
To the sacred Sky City
Standing on top
White Rock Mesa.
Corn and ritual predate
The cradle of history there
Like a breathing shrine,
And the way to Acoma for many
Is only curiosity,
Or a refreshment stop.
But for those who still
Travel the four directions,
The way to Acoma
Is always the way.