Your Body is a Cenote

To the children born
in the mystical threshold
between these worlds, 
may blue waters
and deep caverns
shelter you from la muerte, 
death herself.

Shallow breathing, 
you must acclimate to her
murky darkness,
dipping fingers
into this sunken chest,
an indent of heat and mana.

They say this is where
the magic left your body,
flowing out of all too mortal
hearts and lungs,
a pectus magicium
spell too luminous 
it must exist underground.

After the asteroid hit,
after the Maya homeland
turned into a tourist riviera,
the cenotes remained,
our underground storytellers
carrying us to Xibalba.

This is where your body emerges,
fresh with inherited wounds,
and this is where your body shall
return, rain and Earth mixing until
la muerte embraces you 
as daughter of borrowed time
and mortal promise.