is praying, I think.

Till I reel past his park bench

and note his book of hours.

His iPhone.

Under los portales,

a Mexican boy kisses

a boney gringuita.

No doubt he sees her

with Mexican eyes.

Bellísima

because she’s blond.

But los norteamericanos

see her with American eyes.

Nothing to write home about.

I imagine she sees him

with turista eyes.

Aztec beautiful.

But mexicanos

see him as feo

because he’s indio.

Night hovers.

Tourists lick ice cream cones

before setting out to dinner.

Kids in a sugar fury bounce

inflatable rockets on

church flagstones.

Beer bottles belch open.

Twilight sticky with the fried

scent of burgers and tacos.

Tethered to owners,

little dogs sniff concrete.

The cathedral an apricot hue,

sunburnt as los extranjeros.

Flocks of mariachi descend

itchy for work.

Balloon seller fidgets,

adjusts his yoke of

balloons and blow-up toys.

Shoulder aches.

Even air must weigh something.

While the sweets vendor

floats across the plaza

with a tree of cotton candy

the same colors as clouds.

I Should Like to Fall in Love with a Burro Named Saturnino

I should like to fall in love

with a burro named Saturnino

and sleep murmuring

that name as lullaby.

Warm my bed

with a xoloitzcuintli

the color of blue corn,

and will myself to be reborn

sunflower, ever

faithful to the sun.

I should like to learn to love

with the monogamous

passion of the parrot

and the foolish

valor of the chihuahua.

I should love to dedicate

my morning glory years

to the inspirational ants, who

peacefully and, without remorse

or humor, successfully evict me

from my shower every winter,

lessons in nonviolent persuasion.

I have much to learn from

the sentinel maguey about

fortitude, resilience, patience

in this season of los santos

inocentes de la política.

And day by day I am a student

of the morning sky.

And night by night I memorize

the sermon of the guru moon.

Next to my door

there is an ixtle rope

attached to a bronze bell

announcing visitors.

It does not ring when dawn arrives

with her furious scent of bolillos,

orange peels, and doorways

flushing buckets of Fabuloso

across wet stone.

Every day the same as the one before.

And never as the one before. Each moment

wrapped in newsprint and twine

and delivered always on time.

Figs

FOR DR. BRUNO CEOLIN

Some words

trip me

in my second tongue.

I say

pepino—cucumber

when I mean

pimienta—pepper.

Confuse

ginebra—gin,

when I mean

ginger—jengibre.

And when

the acupuncturist

tells me—

El hígado enamorado

quiere decir

el cuerpo está sano.

The liver in love

means the body is healthy—

I mistake

hígado—liver,

for fig—higo.

I prefer my translation.

All’s right with the world

when figs are in love.

Neither Señorita nor Señora

I didn’t love

those who did.

And did

those who didn’t.

Once

I almost proposed

in Paris.