Mexicans Lost in Mexico

Nico Amador
it was summer and time circled itself like a swarm of gnats  

	
                                     like the pink-topped taxis rounding the 
                                            glorieta  

	
	   if only for the sake of inertia, 
			             we were standing in a foreign desert


the days of the week slid by, uncapitalized


	    my grandfather forever trapped in the picture 
			             where he pretends to play the guitar


a serenade for tourists and lovers with new rules between them


		        our occupation: to look and not touch


at some point we could no longer tell if it was the clouds we were looking at 
		        or the building reflecting the clouds


				                 all epigraphs came pre-assigned


the beautiful thing about this story was that it happened


		         we didn’t see the floating gardens 
					                      and I don’t remember the art  

		
only the symmetry of a blue wall, a momentary breeze


			            there were parrots, I think, or peacocks?  

				
				               there were birds

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Why Seek the Dead among the Living?

As hollow as a gutted fish, a hole in the sand,
a cistern cracked along the seam—

There is no filling such emptiness. And yet—

Stitch it shut. Pour and pour, if you wish. Wish and wish, but it’s wasted—
Water carried to the garden in your cupped palms.

Might as well seal an ember in a wax jar. Kindle fire on the crest of a wave.

Unbloom a poppy, reshut its mouth, unred its lips—
As if it hadn’t already sung,

As if its voice hadn’t already set all summer singing.

And the gall at its throat, the boil it’s prized for,
Hadn’t been cut and bled of its white sleep.

As if a child could be folded, resewn in its sac, and returned to its womb.