in the privacy of a callejón

that rolls soundlessly downhill,

dissolves into the wall of

the chapel of San Juan de Dios,

patron of booksellers, alcoholics,

and the sick, sufferers all…

Even in a town

named for an armed angel,

love finds a route.

A boy and a girl kiss:

seven mute organ cacti

and a nicho de Guadalupe

as witnesses.

To prove love is ever

expanding in space and time,

the boy drafts a Valentine

on the parking triangle’s

hypotenuse—

my neighbor’s stone wall.

“Te”…

sprayed red in block letters.

Then “A”…

Across town,

as narcos duly collect protection

rent from tortilla vendors,

even as townsfolk disappear,

like wallets plucked from

Costco customers’ pockets,

and lifetime savings are obediently

stashed at bus stop trash bins

per phone extortionists’ instruction,

while gentle twilight descends,

releasing, soundless as moths,

serial rapists,

the authorities move swiftly

when children violate

property owned by foreigners.

Love, after all,

is a dangerous conflagration,

an axiom even

Euclid would conclude.

The boy is let go with a few

slaps for his proper education.

The girl wisely escaped at the first

sight of uniforms and guns.

And so, as it was before,

and ever will be,

the neighbor’s wall is

power-hosed to its former

serenity. Except

for a faint pink scar:

Te A—

Te A—

A song crowned with

humility and thorns,

extending into infinity,

stigmata of the forlorn.

A Boy with a Machine Gun Waves to Me

Maybe he is the same

age as the forty-three

from Ayotzinapa,

burned and buried

like trash.

Dark of skin perhaps

the same as the Atotonilco

man arrested and jailed

after a gunfire exchange

he did not begin,

in front of his own,

in front of his home.

Or in collusion with those

who abducted the blind

girl from Parque Juárez

and abandoned her shell

on the road to Celaya,

wrapped in a blanket,

forever in a field of sleep.

He’s in the back of a jeep

with other boys. They

could be a baseball team.

Instead, they’re dressed

in black uniforms,

on their way to work

with machine guns.

I was coming from the market

with a basket of eggs

and a round loaf of bread,

a xoloitzcuincli perched

warm in the crook of my arm.

By Callejón de los Muertos,

their jeep rumbled past.

So many sons armed

with guns like toys,

though I know they’re

real because I’ve asked.

Before they disappear

from view, my hand

raises itself as if

asking a question.

From the back of the jeep

a hand without a machine gun

answers back.

Tepoztlán

roosters

yodel

dogs

debate

church bells

hiccup

dawn

yawns

Señor Martín

First, the urgent story

about an operation

for his lung. For sympathy,

he posed as mute and wrote

his plea on wrinkled paper.

Doubtful. All the same,

I gave. He was not young.

I lowered my donation

from the balcony

in a mesh market bag