Orchids hang from the patio ceiling. When no one
is watching I will take one and put it in my pocket
as if I could own something of this place.
By morning, it will be dead. I’ll walk by a funeral
home with child-sized caskets, and cry.
The air will belong to firewood. Night will return
cold to my bones. I’ll be alebrije: half woman,
half moon. On the feast of San Sebastián,
fireworks rise and fall, like us all.
The orchestras will be spark then ash.
Nothing here is tame. I am high and disoriented,
pulled by my entrails. I’ll dance mezcal blues.
His hand inside my thigh will be a hovering question:
How can we do this, and where?
However and wherever, it won’t be enough
for the way I want to swallow this country: whole.