mango season

Dust-covered roads and smoked sky
I am living between fires,
trail-running at their bruised and blackened edges
cleared brush and lenten earth
Bathing does not wash the dirt coating off my ankle bones
and in the crevices of my feet.
Narrow northern feet,
walking in a foreign land.

Now I recognize the hunger in your eyes,
as well as their perspicacity
I examine it loosely with my fingertips
trembling veined hands deciphering a braille of images,
recorded memories:
of men sleeping in the street,
roosters strutting in filthy graveyards of plastic and glass
blooming jacaranda trees.
Incongruous puzzle pieces
like the one you showed me,
the one you are building.

Doors and windows wide open invite non-existent breezes
Maseca season has left me dryer for him than I knew.