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, tall, her
    long arms sheathed in toffee-colored skin, 
    her wet eyes friendly yet faintly mocking.
    She isn’t old, though a little older,
    and she appears so abruptly through the acute
    windshield glare and comes into full site
    as something sprung from an underground gate —
    so unexpectedly there
    in the sharp southwestern desert light
    which transforms her black locks to copper hair —
    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



    November 28th, 2019 | journalpulp | 2 Comments |

About The Author

Ray Harvey

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 at the core of my life.

2 Responses and Counting...

  • Jaimie 11.28.2019

    This is beautiful, and the ending is most beautiful of all.

  • You’re a beautiful human being.

    Thank you for reading and for leaving me such a lovely comment, which came at the right time.

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