Flame leaps from the hand, the rain is listless
Yet drinks the thirst from our lips,
solid as echo… (Canto VII)
I have eaten the flame. (Canto XXXIX)
A corner table, Taqueria Too Hot for Comfort, just
outside of Arena, New Mexico. Waiting on Fajitas
al Pastor, and another Dos Equis. Munching chips
and salsa, squeezing lime into the stone wear bowl
to kill a little of the heat. My fault. I asked in my
best TexMex, “Ajima! ¡Más caliente por favor!”
“My own damned fault,” as the theologian said.
Here comes the HausFrau with the tortillas, a boy
behind her carrying the sizzling pan of meat and
threes. Cholula in the condiments rack, a side
of nuclear peppers. I’ll be paying for dinner
all night long as I watch the stars spin their tale.
* * *
Day one, NaPoWriMo 2019. An ounce of Pound for inspiration… and not a drop of tequila, I promise. Sad thing is, the voice is recognizable in parts of the West.