We eat nopalitos
for lunch
pruned from our hard yard
and we love the afternoon away
both of us hunter
both of us prey
then sleep.
I dream about pueblos
with names of women
and a smoky cantina with flowered curtains
and ironwood tables
polished by a million brown elbows.
The floor fan blows the hair on my legs
whispers chicken skin goodbyes
to my sweat
and as the heat rises with the finale of April
I am at peace with what will come:
wormy compost of May
foul-smelling hat
sunburned deeds
mesquite syrup and cactus jelly
sealed in jars like preserved lust
the throat-burning flames of bacanora June
sour stains of July
lime and onion tears
of August
the desert stretched out like an endless
mockery of self-importance.
Funneled into the triumph
of now
the sun floats down
into the other
a popped balloon at a gala ball
and as I wake up
it’s like I’m face to face
with the prettiest girl
at the last dance of the world
and she’s looking at me
like she just woke up too.