-san patricio melaque, mexico
i tried to stay here for days, to sway with the
sharp blades of palms, let the purpled morning mist
envelop my sensory field, reclining
on a lounge chair, thinking only
of coffee in my hand, hissing steam,
a shrimp omelet and fresh cut mango
a short walk down the breezeful malecon.
buenos dias amigos, as the silence of six urchins
reveals something, and blots of dirty hair
suddenly bob up behind the cracking seawall,
tienen hambre oh si gringo claro que si
and off we go, palm in palm,
but the little tienda is not open yet,
and the patch of sidewalk in front
is pocked with the seeded guts
of a newly squashed melon.
offshore, twin mounds of jungle jade
invite exploration, as the first fishing boats
start to waft back to the pier, the men inside
with frowns as big as mexico city, and
a duo of surfers carve meandering canyons
into the shimmer of sea-gloss.
my book is open again, but the words
are all dead in the face of her arrival.
i look up, dile como estas mi amor
in spanish, as rusty as the bus
that brought us here, making the star-spattered
jalisco night a bit more manic, and the
driver treated the long descent to sea level
as if taunting the ridiculous curves
to pull us over.
we came here, because new love has been found,
and seeing all the foundered lovers,
arguing small points in spasms of erotic violence,
making the endless negotiation between two people
a trail of crumbs that ladle-beaked pelicans
might fight over.
the hotel pool is a hexagon,
mucho mas ninos de la calle
straddle the poorly built fence, staring
at our frivolous splashings
with eyes as sharp as harpoons.
i pick my book back up, the one
about the futility of astronomy,
as the sun spirals to its daily zenith,
and the nasal invitation to pescado frito
al mojo de ajo, and a bit of tequila
makes our languor suddenly impertinent.
sticky blots of coca-cola:
mud-dense,
cratering the splintered tiles of the malecon,
as each newborn moment
becomes a memory
etched in posterity.
looking back, to those singular days,
it would be nice to be that person, in that place
for much longer than was allowed,
all the way, perhaps, to the turmoil of now:
as the interstate becomes a pinball machine,
and all my earthly possessions should be
chewed sunflower seeds, left to compost
in the classroom i can barely manage,
the endless chatter of children in perfect uniforms
pledging allegiance to a flag
soaked with their parent's field-born sweat.
three generations of bathing suits
amble onto the burning sand, refrescos
in hand, as a troops of underage vendors
hawk trinkets, hats, and snacks:
and my refusal, still polite, has been refined
into an assertive swish of the head
from side to side, suddenly, overhead,
a daredevil pelican torpedoes
to the water's lid, retrieving a silver fish
at the same time
the eldest generation of bathing suits
explodes in laughter, and i begin to think
life is better as a dream, when the ocean
is a magic carpet destined to stay
the same shade of blue.
