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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
sense.
2 Responses and Counting...
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.