Warm Street II
I lived in that dirty little place three weeks. I saw a crippled bug in my
sheets, the color of old maize. At night we listened to
the corridos of narcotics and of lonely mothers whose
babies always die right away. In my dreams they came to life,
and I woke up sweating,
the dead white bone of Morelia
visiting at the window.
Before morning, it was back,
pulling at my skin. I wept heavy, guilty tears into
the sink, Montezuma buried deep
inside my sickness. How can I save you,
Mexico? Who am I to save you, Mexico?
I am so broken with your beautiful country
strewn across my wet thighs.