On Sundays we would buy
with pastel pesos
the sweet brown pastries
a big bulging white bag of them
and you would present them
to the spidery beggar women’s hands
greet their dark clay eyes
in front of the big pointy church
along the cobbled streets
on nearly invisible corners
in stone shaded doorways
beneath curtains of bougainvillea
handing each hand a pastel paper napkin
and smiling as you blessed each one
with the bread and sugar.
¡Buenos dios, madre!
In the crystal afternoon
after siesta the time would
come to walk down
past the fancy hotel
named for its arching doors
where we would afford drinks
on rare occasion
where the clever stream
gurgled like happy babies
out of sight bouncing
beyond the lush fragrant foliage
the whole extravagance
sculpted into the side of the hill
high above a dry mud field
where children kicked a dusty ball
we walked, you led
beyond the walls of Los Positos
beyond the secluded orchids
frail as butterfly wings swaying—
¡Buenos tardes!
we stepped
a graceful dance
down to the heart of town
where we would wait on moss green
painted iron benches
for the blackbirds descent
a reclaiming cloud exactly
at six o’clock refilling
the sheared jacaranda trees
with their feathered lullabies.
When we stopped by the cart
to sniff the air like hungry dogs
then point to the fat chicken
roasting happily with the others
glad to come up the hill with us
to the street you said meant mud flats
it was my weak northern ankle
that began to fail
just past the open-doored laundry
the sign said Lavandería, like the herb
and you
ever gracious
waved your magic hand
and made a taxi appear.
The hill’s steep angle
strained the poor old cab
as we rested our feet for a few blocks
before the thin white smoke
seeped from under the hood
growing fatter with
the bitter smell of machinery failing
our cue to hit the streets again
leaving a distressed driver with full
fare and handsome tip
for his apologies. Only later
as we washed the day’s
dust from our feet and set about
the task of setting the table
did we find missing
the fragrant chicken
no doubt easing the tale of misfortune
the taxi driver must tell his worried wife.
We could barely eat
our fruit salad
for the mouthfuls of laughter
falling like the fountain
in the tiled courtyard.
Buenos noche, mi amiga.
5-21-05
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