The Indio Considers the Virtues of Light

We were taught to put our faith
          in the idea of light—its soft 
beginning chords, its copper sheen 
         at day's end; that place above 
the clouds opening like a gate to 
         a country supposedly without 
suffering. In summer, we slick our bodies 
         with oil, bask in any atrium of heat
poured through the ceiling above the sea. 
         Dark to begin with before any added 
burnishing, we sleeve our peasant skins, 
         our colonized skins; untangle braids
that once grew so long, we were thought
        to sweep the floors with them.