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

Once, impassive priests stood here,
clad in gold and feathers,
obsidian blades poised
and dripping gore.  

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

He turns away, spitting pink gum
into my granite bowl.  
There was a time when
I would have had his throbbing heart.