Where bright blood flowed
across my carven chest,
I now feel only warm, tropic raindrops.

Feathered priests once stood here,
impassive, clad in gold and feathers,
obsidian knives dripping gore.

And now a bored child sulks,
dragged unwilling to my side
by tourist parents,  kicking at wet pebbles.

Turning to leave, he spits pink
gum into my granite bowl.
Once I would have had his steaming heart.