A Metaphor I Liked

It was nearly midnight and there were ten minutes before happy hour closed. I was talking to a young British man who had moved to Buenos Aires about a year ago, left his university in the middle of his studies to see what else was in the world. He flagged the bartender down and I ordered a rum and coke before we played the universal game of twenty questions.

So, how long have you been here for? he asked.

Just about two weeks.

His mouth dropped.
I'm so jealous of you.

Why? I asked.

I don't know how to put it.
(A beat)
What is your favorite tv show?

I dont know. I have many.

Just pick one.

Ok. Entourage.

Remember when you first started watching Entourage?

Yes.

Do you recall the feeling of season one? The excitement of each episode?

Falling in love with the characters?

Exactly. That's what you have now with Buenos Aires now.

And right now you're on season... five?

He laughed.
I guess. I still love it, but it's not quite as fresh.

Yes, but we always keep watching.

A short smile.
Do you want to sit at that table?

He led me to the corner near the entrance and we finished our drinks thinking, anticipating our eighteenth, nineteenth, twentieth question.

Mother on a Streetcorner

Her nipple peeked through her blouse as she sat against the wall of a hair salon. Her eyes closed against the harsh sunlight; skin broiling, bubbling, salivating, she dreamt of a cold shower and sunscreen. Her shirt had not been changed in eight days, various stains decorating simple mustard yellow. Bohemian flower skirt inched to her knees. Thick legs spread wide on concrete, frail hairs in patches. Scars like hieroglyphics and a fresh bruise on her calf. Her raisin lips spoke need of Burts Bees and ice cubes in a city where ice cubes and Burts Bees could be delicacies.

It's gums wrapped around her large aerola and sucked violently for lunch. Like a kitten, it fed off it's mother ravenously, nearly tearing tissue, splitting ducts from the body of it's creator. She held it in her arms tight, mouth sucking like a machine- the only sensation that still brought her pleasure. Men in suits walked by. Boys with virgin eyes and soccer balls. Women in sandals and pulled back hair. She made the street corner her living room, opened doors to visitors passing through.

And though she had none, she sat there through the sunset- child in arm- the everyday grafitti that never saw a second glance.

Next Time I Will Wear Sunscreen

i am neopolitian
(pale
pink
brown)
in the mirror, naked.
such southern sun
died my body
peeled away
layers
to make me look
like hand made
ice cream.

in close to
nothing
i swim through light
or rather
light swims through me
until milky flesh
blends into a flavor
sweeter than
yesterday.

would you please
scoop me from my bed
put me on
a sugar wafer
so i can melt against
your tongue?
i never taste like
strawberry
vanilla
and chocolate
all at once

Boy at a Bank

Through the glass of Banco Central
I saw you with your hand out
dirt fingernails
dinner stains
jeans rolled at the ankle
hoping i might drop you a peso or two
from the ATM
I consider a close friend

They told us not to
when you call me
your amigo
or use your fragile legs
to limp towards my affection

I thought of Slumdog Millionare
the young begger missing his eyes
spooned out like the chocolate gelato
I treated myself to earlier this afternoon
"No dinero. Lo Siento"

I crossed the street
clutched my purse tight
turned back to catch you with your hand still out
waiting

Found myself in the bathroom of a cafe
where I sat on the toilet
after I flushed
hunched over
face in my hands
hoping you keep your eyes.

Peaches on Ecuador

In the box
by the corner of Ecuador and Viamonte
a pile of peaches
sunbathe
under a razor ozone
lemon
rose
crimson flesh
wrinkling by the hour
I pick one up and squeeze it
until it juices with cancer

The man with missing teeth watches me
looks down my blouse
curious to see
American breasts

"Uno Peso", he says.
I drop it in leather hands
and walk away with peach blood
drying on my fingertips

The street of Ecuador is long
I am already stained by this city
dewing in its heat
but left my towel at home.