East of the Setting Sun
  • South of the border among the pluripresence
    of jellied heat, east of the setting sun, in
    Nogales, Mexico, where this sort of thing can occur,
    you glimpse, twenty-five meters off the shoulder
    of the road, a Mexican lady, walking
    alone: black-haired, slender, sun-soaked. Her
    arms are bare and glow with toffee-colored skin,
    the wet black eyes friendly yet almost mocking.
    Not old but a little older,
    she appears so suddenly through the acute
    glare of windshield light, coming into your site
    as something sprung up from an underground gate
    and so unexpectedly there in the sharp light
    that for an instant the world, like a top,
    wobbles to a stop
    and everything that’s ever happened to you
    all at once, in a way you can’t articulate
    and yet unquestionably true,
    makes absolute
    sense.


    November 28th, 2019 | journalpulp | No Comments |

About The Author

I was born and raised in the San Juan Mountains of southwestern Colorado. I've worked as a short-order cook, construction laborer, crab fisherman, janitor, bartender, pedi-cab driver, copyeditor, and more. I've written and ghostwritten several published books and articles, but no matter where I've gone or what I've done to earn my living, there's always been literature and learning as the constant in my life.

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