There is this essential moment when the bearers are being herded down a narrow dirt road without shields or macaas—it is still happening, hasn't appreciated in the telling, hasn't been born but clings wickedly to its own cord, something wet. Tlatelolco has had both kneecaps blown off by a harquebusier; beads of rain glisten on precious leaves above the Temple; it is not a time or place to remember, not ample enough for history; it isn't so much before Nauhtla clambers up the ziggurat to hurl a score of stillborn curses at the rocks below, or after the glare from Motecuhzoma, spun hotly off his litter; it passes instead somewhere along the in-between, in someone's apprehension of slackness: Cortss is still a Sun God, or else he is not, or else it isn't going to matter anymore.© Seth Abramson
from New Orleans Review