“Buen Provecho.” Vats of fried chicken
sizzle in the dim-lit
cantina.
We edge our way out
warily with
pointed pistols and
make off through
fields of girasols in
our white Volkswagon.
Visiting our mistress
in prison – by cab –
in this case, red
public truck, which
normally seats
passengers in the rear
though we get to sit
next to the driver
who stops for a drink
of whiskey
Nightengales, nothing else.
They’re practicing
witchcraft where we are going.
Bouncing breasts,
bare buttocks and moving flames—
An anthill prohibits
procreation. Submerged congregation,
A white horse counts
water and the black snake was captured,
testing the monk’s
passions.
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