Lines of flecos from the church’s dome 

Stretched out to the boundary walls

Encircle the church square

In rainbow colors

For the lazy breeze to carry their rustling

As clouds smeared against the bright blue sky

Open this tranquil world of Teotitlan.

Two boys in the bell towers,

The birds and children not seen, 

And her gold bangles

Join in to slipstream music 

Into that breeze.

Under the arches in the porch

Lying on the cold stone bench

With his head against her feet

Fungus face records it all.

With a bag of fruits from the market, 

Under the great tree 

On the wrought iron bench

She shows him how to eat papaya with lime. 

They sit around the fire 

On the mushroom mountain for days

Sharing their lives unbounded.

Behind the window by the iron stairs 

She stares out at her green space sipping coffee

He tells her she does not remember correctly

That her entrance door is arched not square.

His third wife in the terrace palace in Mitla

Hands him a red flying carpet

And asks him to leave.

They weave in alter egos 

Of serial killer, knicker klepto, and lucha libre nurse

As they feel young again, cuddled in TLC.

Walking cobbled streets of Oaxaca at night

She tucks his left arm into herself

Because the right did not feel right

For the warmth of her breast, he says

“I like being with you,

We would have been good together”, she says.

She draws an agave 

On the remains of red beet puree

After they eat a salad 

Of a kaleidoscope of tomatoes

“Thats not right”, he repeats and then explains.

Then one night, short of pushing him off the edge

This hummingbird with water on her head

Douses the one whose mind

Is constantly on fire.

“You are good”, she said

Y el geiser hierve, on her stomach.

“I feel ready for life”, she says

I then contemplate its meaning;

I asked her out to play

And she agreed.