Molcajete

MOLCAJETE

Dusk – dogs answer motorcycles on empty streets. Above my fence the cypress is a dark bird gathering birds. A plane uncovers the first star and I return to those evenings lying face up on the roof –estrellas one by one in the yellow Mexican night –return to a single light-bulb kitchen – dark women moving arms-filling aproned waists to the cri-cri of the clock over the molcajete –molcajete moving me home.

—Miriam de Uriarte