I am standing in a stance of memory
to recapture Chapultapec Park kaleidoscope
of candies carts of cut mangoes a museum of gold
down in Oaxoaca
girls circled the zocalo arm in arm
wearing thick glossy braids and dresses of pressed white cotton
how the heat brought out lovers and elders and the beauty
mark beneath my right eye which emerged like a sun print or a sign
point on a line leading nowhere except where I was
which was Mexico whose giant bugs scattered for cover
across the ceiling when I flipped on the light
just off the night bus stumbling with fatigue I had fever dreams
of hands moving over me as I slept with the lamp on
my head under the sheets I woke at sunrise covered in sweat
my own salt on my brow and lip as if from hard work
as when two shores refuse to touch as when lapsed love is as much
diffidence as distance or how the beauty of a place
exerts discreet pain to make its mark indelible
