In Lima’s Inquisition Museum,
everyone is made of wax.
The rack handler and thumb screw guy wear hoods
while the heretics display mild surprise,
that it might have turned out otherwise on a different day
with a different God and a different set of questions.
The nearby Governor’s villa
quivers with so many Archangels, there is a feather on the floor.
They hang framed as family portraits
with pink flamingo wings and breast plates
emblazoned in sacred Incan cantuta blooms.
A life-size crucifixion
wears a pretty lace petticoat embroidered with potato flowers
for the Redeemer’s modesty.
‘Christ of the Tremors’ saved Cusco from an earthquake
then raised more silver in a year than all the mines of Peru.
Louche bougainvillea
spills down the garden walls.
Suited waiters correct rows of seats for the evening concert.
A cork pops and glasses are arranged in pyramids.
Above the fountain, a small portal of opal iridescence opens.
My first hummingbird
is watching me.
From all the day’s miracles, this is the hardest to believe:
how to stay alive yet still be capable of flight.
As a test, he slips through a chink in the sky, expecting me
to join him on the other side.
Commended in the 2024 Troubadour Prize
Mark Fiddes 
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