San Pedro, Mexico

We would walk to the bandstand at the plaza on Friday nights—
to behold the great cacophony of life, drenched in neon, as Mariachi music drifted across the parking lots and lawns, the speakers wailing the dirge of a desert town, to synchronize each human heart—
And after buying tacos and a coke, we’d sit on the curb as the wind stirred the dirt 
While novios walked hand in hand, in promenade, in Sunday best, above the fray

Those evenings seemed to speak:
Work hard all day and once a week, you can have your say, and a little drink
And lean in to love or lust, on tired grass 
If that’s your lot, then chin up:
A kiss beneath a tree with no business blooming in the desert redounds with miracle, and maybe you can
make it last
And hold it long within your grasp 

All the while, the great sun would burn down as if too sad to stay
But we hardly noticed the holy shades of orange nor the shape of the world’s temple nor its crown of thorns
And certainly not all the things we couldn’t name or say 
Ghostly within us, just kept at bay
Like how human longing is all the same
And we know its shape but not its name 

We felt, too, there is nothing new under the sun or moon 
Culture, too—once you get past the music and the food—is all a dirge
A sweeping of the soul so we can order our long lament
And our brave facing of the dark
With food, music, and miraculous hearts