b> For Shelley, the only cure for Mexico is Mexico, xoxox amiga

We sped away
a get away, behind bullet pocked
glass, narrowly escaping
North America
Hailed by soldiers
we cough up rote reactions
to battered freedoms
rear-ended, our own fault
No need to slow, 80 mph
assessments will do
Wedged on a bench seat,
They are made of work
and fatigue, a scent
that does not wear
down, windows down
the wind proclaims
me home,
all the stench turns out,
filth and jasmine
shit, fire, blood, water
fetid and gushing pure
valleys so full
of lights they blur
vast plains of the world
with just one
twinkle. Kurs and kids
unattended freeze
in our hilights, scared cattle
you’d guess from the boniness,
their proximity to

All these years
here and I only know
one thing

I am sick with it
Mad for it
to be in contact
with me, the racket,
and zeal, it’s broken
voice, authentic lies,
deceits it swears
to itself resting
its’ catholic

my desperate cure
my eucharis
melts on the tongue
I know my chances

© 2013 Abby Smith, Writer

4 thoughts on “Curandero

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