On Real Alto’s shore, he gazes out
at the Pacific, holds the figurine
lightly in his left hand, rubbing its stout
frame gently without thinking—feminine
breasts and men’s genitals a common trait.
He reflects on the Valdivia, how
they cultivated maize, kidney beans, hot
peppers and cotton. He’d store such goods now
along Ecuador’s great roads and beyond
to keep his Inca empire from starving.
He turns and studies Atahualpa, fond
of his young laughter, offers the carving
as a toy. Years from now, smallpox will stun
him. Then Pizarro will slaughter his son.
Roger Armbrust
August 2, 2011
