Poetry: Michoacan

Michoacan

After years, I anoint you,

holy oil righting wrongs

so all I see is the gold

my touch turns you into.

In that colonial, alchemical city,

as we rest beside a fountain,

weary of gilt cathedrals and

jacarandas’ purple flares

on late-Lent sky.

Your gorgeous head on my lap,

striking as a mass of bougainvillea;

heart-stirred into the next day.

Ferry boat and serenade—

old man and beat-up guitar;

you and I are an attractant, caught

like ghosts at a séance,

laughing, testing our miracles

before ascending the heights

of that ancient island, stripped

to bare limbs and copper

skin, until we can see

for miles,

but not

what stands

before us.

{Originally published at Dulcet Literary Magazine, November 2024, with interview.}