Mexico does not inspire
The poetry in me
I imagined
It laughs at my advances
It is insistent
Use my language, not the tongue
cut from conquerors,(like the feet of our gods)

It purrs in the garbage
and flowers, upon burros
snapping Chiclets
whimpers among the starving
dogs, patrolling ruins
catches on razor wire,
bangs, beds down in mattress
skeleton houses,
barks graffiti, hacks up wood smoke,
hisses on comals
stews in cazelas

Holds it tongue

Under aprons it
(I pray)
lays in wait

© 2013 Abby Smith, Writer