NOCHE DE NIÑOS MUERTOS
Darkness, the sound of creaking oarlocks, 
        an hourglass lantern swinging on a prow hook
        rocked by a lone boatman. In the distance
        a small island in Lake   Patzcuaro, Janitzio, 
        a town crowned by an adobe church,
        as smoothly rounded as a bleached skull, 
        a town, a humped belly of white-fish houses
        stuck in the one pin-cushion hill, a tiara of 
        lit candles wavering like moonlight through 
        rubies. Diego, Frida, Leon,  Natalia, André, 
        his wife Jacquelinedisembark onto a creaking 
        dock, disappear into the yellow wax glow of 
        a cemetery crowningthe hill.   Marimba music, 
        a thousand votary candles in cups, brilliant 
        silver light .The man playing the marimba 
        uses human shin bones for hammers. Leon 
        watches an aging couple carrying the corpse
        of their beragged daughter, seating her skeleton 
        at a picnic table, offering her wine-sopped bread. 
        Leon  leans to Diego: —What’re they saying?
—Family business. Births. They don’t have to 
mention deaths, the dead know the dead.  Marriages, 
the usual … how the fishing’s going. Skulls, 
        masks of skulls, a skelton in tuxedo, top hat.
        A skeleton in Bishop’s robes, mitre, kisses 
        the tuxedo. Leon  looks at another mausoleum, 
        sees himself and Natalia carrying Lev’s corpse 
        clad in his best blue serge suit, seating him 
        at a metal fold-out picnic table in a deck chair.
        Leon  tears a loaf of black bread, offers a handfull 
        to Lev: —My son, you probably want to know
        how goes the struggle. We’re inching along.
        The world is drawing its breath in for a long siege …
                       Lev, tell me, Is there a God?
        Lev’s face, cheeks gone, nose gone, still skin 
        on forehead. Leon  turns away in time to see André 
        palm a small ceremonial bowl from a headstone.
—What’re you doing? André pocketing the bowl: 
—A man should have what he loves
—At the expense of these poor people?
—Don’t be so bourgeois, Leon.
Leon  waves Breton off  in an Ah, go on, gesture 
then: —It’s over, whatever there was.
                       End of conversation!
        He turns away from Breton, faces Diego:           
        Come, translate for me, teach me the idiom. 
        Diego says:—In the beginning,  
        En el comienzo … es la palabra … say it …
—En el comi … enzo … Leon  echoes  … es la pala … bra.
from Shooting Script: Door of Fire