2 March 2002 | Vol. 2, No. 1

Pictures of Conquistadors

by CHARLES VALLE

Arms over shoulders,

Jesus and Christopher lean close

Together, tiny fists

Clamping tight on plastic

Swords, their gold

Breastplates made more golden

By the overexposed film. And me,

With my toothless snarl,

Betraying the levity of a homemade

Conquistador helmet, two

Sizes too large. Even then

I knew how tough

Those Spaniards were. A fourth

Grade Halloween, reaping

The booty without parents

For the first time. Like the waxing

Moon, we ruled the night

By reflection. Defying all

Warnings, we crossed west

Main-to the big houses

Hoping to return home with full-

Sized candy bars, sweet treasures

To calm the childish distance

Among us. There were other

October evenings, always moving

Towards a divergence we

All feared. But I think of Cristóbal

Colón in the mouth of the Orinoco,

His intemperate hands trying

To grasp the soil of a new

Discovery. I think of the thoughts straining

To hold on to the ineffability

Of a pear-shaped world. Before me,

I think of young fists raised

High, with dull, gray swords

Pointing to yellowing borders—

Growing older

Still.