archeology of fog

                  then after

you put down the novel

before you rise     you are engulfed

in a delicate haze

    of longing

                but for what?

you go to your computer

craving ritual     familiar

sequence of screens     fingers

tap out possibilities     dispel

for a moment

     the longing

           or is it regret?

adscapes skitter across

the screen     skate the cursor

over eye of jaguar     

     it blinks

                  evokes dream   

motor launch disappearing

down a river into fog     throb

of its motor fading    

     pop-up

                woman with

the secret of unwrinkled skin    

     longing

                         for youth   

not the taut vigor   far seeing

eye or smooth gliding cartilage

of knee running

     not these

                     but time

endlessness    sea of glowing

colors    chartreuse   plum    mango    

you can swim in any direction    time

to choose another     maybe to

those distant lights

     you always

                         meant

Mexico Dreams

In the farmacia I ask for Benedril for my friend

who has broken out in hives, and she takes

two aqua capsules before we translate the package

that says nothing of allergy or itching, but

promises sueños tranquilos, peaceful dreams

“I came here for dreams,” she said, remembering

the house with iron letters crowning the door:

sueños de invierno, dreams of winter.

The Chief rode off with the white man’s blanket

traded for the secret of corn. As he rode,

the planes heaved up into jagged hills,

the sun split like an amoeba into two glowing poppies,

his skin blistered and began to move, unable to find

a resting place. He raked the pox with his nails

and felt hot liquid spread beneath his fingertips.

Just as my friend poised her camera on the sign for

Calle Indio Triste, Street of the Sad Indian,

an old woman crept into the picture,

her face wrapped in vivid shawls. At the click of the shutter,

the woman seemed to unbend; her shawls dropped away,

her hair fell in two thick braids;

her face was as smooth as a Brazil nut.

The young beauty walked toward my friend,

one hand extended. Perched on her wrist

was a yellow bird, who sang out, “Americana,

come with me. I will show you the river of flowers,

bougainvillea, magenta, red and orange, and roses

and calla lilies you thought Diego Rivera invented.

Come watch the flow of flowers through the streets,

each an Indian, a woman who knew the grit of

cornmeal paste between her palms; a man whose hands

grew rough as the handle of his hoe grew smooth.”

archeology of fog was first accepted by Naugatuck River Review. Mexico Dreams first appeared in Emerge Literary Journal.