September 19

Al pastor with big hunks
of piña, a raucous song

coming from a band
of young drunks,

is it Roma, Condesa?
These streets run

around and around
like a race track.

Cerveza at altitude. Joven,
cinco más por favor,

con todo. What warmth
and light at this hour

of night. And absolutely
nothing at right

angles, walls coming out
like full bellies,

pavement in riot,
this city sinking down

into the prior.
Poco que sé.

You were a child here,
and so are more lovable here,

or, I love more here—
innocence is fearless,

if indefensible.
Every wall a canvas,

alebrijes line the streets,
bronze marigolds, a hundred

altars for the dead,
flies in the eyes

of sugar skulls, endless
limes, vats of jamaica water,

it whets an appetite,
new words, tlalpeño,

can I eat it?
I could even be happy here.

I could ride a bike to the Zocálo
sip tamarindo and never

ever learn how to say doubt.
Look at the size of this sky,

this city that floats
in a sea of itself, and tell me

over midnight tacos
what is and isn’t possible.

OPTIONAL POETRY