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 woman who’s walking
    alone: black-haired, slender, sun-drenched, tall, her
    arms baked and bare and aglow with toffee-colored skin, 
    her wet black eyes friendly yet mocking.
    She is not old, though clearly a little older,
    and she appears so abruptly through your acute
    windshield-glare, coming into your site
    as something sprung from a subterranean grate — 
    so unexpectedly there in the sharp western 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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