Mesilla
An alcove in an adobe wall, filled with clay churches, right behind the real church on the plaza. Chickens cluck all day, and the rooster crows at will—no alarm clock he. The dog barks at any imagined trespass.
A bar band is playing “Papa was a rolling stone,” and I dance on the sidewalk. I’ve heard almost no live music in a year.
The lavender plant is full of bees.
white hyacinth,
church bells—the smell of spring
up from Mexico
You say I’m always happy here, no matter the season.
Christmas tree
still in the window—
daffodils
To arrive at a border, to attempt to cross it, is to start suffering in a particular way-—well-known to my four grandparents who crossed an ocean of the imagination. Personally, I cannot discount any faith that helps.
On Sunday morning, mass is broadcast from the church and parishioners listen from the courtyard, sitting on the adobe walls. A woman walking a dog crosses herself.
a man kneels
in the street, facing
the priest’s voice
