Spring 1982 • Vol. IV No. 2 Mexican Poems |

The Cur

I The wild dogs in the road weave and smell among the stones like dry rivers prowling for rain. When they are gone, you say, "They will never find it, whatever it is." "Even the sun is sick," you say, "eating that wormy meat on the hillside." In truth, the sun is feverish, bumping across the sky on the flat bed of a truck, hoping to get to the doctor in time. "And there's the moon, with her teeth gone, waving from her high window." The rain, we wonder, what has become of the rain? Weak from amoebas, it crawled away to the coast and lies in the tangled trees tormented by mosquitos. Of the gods, only the wind is up. He paces from mountain to mountain, torn by thorns, rubbing handfuls of dust in his hair. II With the gods raving or ill, what will we do? The garden we come back to is beautiful. The bougainvillaea tosses a crimson scarf over its shoulder, and pure white irises catch the light under their skirts. The fronds of the banana tree wave themselves ragged in the win

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