baltimore, maryland
a. he snored against the window in zapotec,
ovals of paint spattered across his suit
like rorshach dots.
if i were to interpret his dreams,
i would picture a loom first brought by the franciscans,
who wanted desperately to make these indians productive.
the loom sits in a broad, high-ceilinged, dust-choked room,
its pedals whirring like the rush of water over rock,
the end product a carpet of extraordinary power,
a power truly known
to my snoring painter alone.
b. in teotitlan del valle, most rooftops
are capped with satellite dishes.
there are more nice cars here, and roads
that have fewer potholes. i amble along,
past mezcal hawkers with toothless grins,
beside curious children afraid to wander too close,
next to queenly matriarchs with faces buried in shawls.
there are some decent ruins, and a community museum.
c. i try to imagine which house, which satellite dish,
belongs to the snoring painter, face pressed against
the thick pane like a wrestler's pinned to the mat.
i picture that i may have met his family, in passing,
the customary "hola" of the speedy tourist.
i have tasted his native air, smelled its vats of mole,
cast more than a passing glance
at its billowy fields.
d. he snored against the window in zapotec,
and so never realized
that i was busy staring.
