As I walk the perimeter of the town

I try and find the light or the smell or any corner piece

that will remind me of home

But all I have are the sounds of the song I listened to that morning

Sung in a language made to romance the lovers,


Yo las canciones y tu la magia


A language made to be heard all around.

It wasn’t until I reached the top of the hill,

where downtown ends

or begins

the crossroads where the colors begin to meld

like when the oils of old, beater cars

mix with the water on the edge of the pavement

a sort of whimsical song and dance

made only possible

by science

I started to finally feel like my feet were gaining traction,

hitting the ground yet floating on top of it

The grip of whatever circulates through the air up there

slowly began to hug my face, and every inch of skin

I chose to have exposed.

And yet,

when I step into the shop

I turn from a golden hue

to a deep dark blue

infused with nothing

but confusion

as to who I am and where I should look

probably not into the eyes of that


so sure of herself

and maybe envious

of me

as I chose the pastries

that had the child

in me





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