Cochineal

Poncho (ceremonial, chieftain's), 19th century Aymara Artist • Alpaca The Ethel Morrison Van Derlip Fund, 90.571

Ancient Mayans discovered

that the dried shells of cochineal bugs,

parasites living off the fruit of the prickly pear,

could be used to create a scarlet dye.

Their discovery was adopted by the Spanish.

Even Cardinals coveted cochineal for their red robes.

We adopted our daughter

from the land of the Maya, near Lake Atitlan 

–the lake where the rainbow gets its color –

and brought her north to a world of white:

to soft blankets of snow, to pearly planes gliding across flat lakes,

to the milky skin of European conquerors.

Many years later, I wrap myself

in a shawl woven by a Mayan woman, wondering

if its flaming color came from the cochineal bug.

On the balcony where I perch,

I am encircled by ripe tomatoes on nearby plants,

strawberries in a ceramic bowl,

crimson cotton covering the wicker rocking chair

I bought while awaiting my daughter’s entrance

into our white world.

One night in particular,

I remember rocking my daughter, her skin

the reddish brown of pre-conquest pottery,

her black eyes searching my own,

asking silent questions I couldn’t answer.

Why did we remove her from a land

of turquoise lakes and volcanoes and quetzal birds?

From a people that discovered

red dye, calendars, an alphabet and astronomy?

I still don’t know.

I read recently that Mayan women

are bringing back that ancient way

of weaving with dyes colored from cochineal.

And the lake near which I live

has been renamed ––Bde Maka Ska,

white earth lake in the Dakotan language.

Can red threads weave across

man-made borders and connect

a Minnesota lake to Lake Atitlan in Guatemala?

Lakes named after land, not men. 

Can red threads repair the damage done

when one group exploits another?

I know.