There are No Cactus Trees in New Mexico

Low growing pinons and purple astors

and rocks where the natives have  

a hundred names for shades of brown

And the people as varied

and creased and as brown as the rocks

Life short and long there

Babies die before they walk due to plague,

and rape and murder, where men

with crisp blue coats and gold buttons

bayonet them to save the bullets.

And yet the elders sit among the rocks

and remember and grieve the dead and the living

and the paint their doors the one shade of blue

 that reminds me of the sky.

Are these the doors to heaven

 or only to  blue corn enchiladas

and tamales?

And is there any difference

between them and heaven?