Arrival, Oaxaca, Mexico
The courtyard of this Southern Mexico
apartment is shaded by the smiling
boughs of a grapefruit tree that furnishes
home to a pair of birds who politely
shit the floor, and where we wake mornings
to georgic bells that fill the air,
a rooster that ki-ki-keyrie-ki's early and
surrounds the city sounds. If words could,
they would transform into perfume of
grapefruit-blossom scent. When did this
happen in my own country, that lounging
requires leaving it? At home, we are all
cars, errands, work. The color here—
bougainvillea petals gang up together
on the wall in hot bouquets of rojo, coral y
blanco. Flowers weed out fierce while we
aristocratic americans lounge in our ruining state.
This American culture, 2,000 years old, could give
a bird's shit about us. What relief, the pressure off!
The end of day goes violet here, so nearly
blood orange, it makes me weep color.
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