Dust grounds me here, air thick,
streets uneven, light blurred. Murals
on cracking cement walls, entangled
serpents in fading greens and reds. Chipped
black paint on the long hair of a woman,
her head raised high, above her in
blue letters: AMOR.
Dust of memories blown away
in the taste of corn masa, carried
by the perfume of fresh guayaba.
Untethered from sorrow, shared stories,
a ground empty of ghosts.
Dust on the wooden counter
in a local market, the old woman cleans
with a rag. I am starved, I say.
The market closing, there
is nothing left.
Dust of her kindness, as she heats
corn tortillas on her blackened comal,
on the temporary stove, offering whatever
she has: a hard-boiled egg, one tomato,
and a plate, while I sit on the wobbly bench.
Dust of tender sadness
the pesos heavy in my pocket,
when I ask, How much?
Nothing, she says.
Dust of greed, grief, and gluttony
disappears as I walk unknown
streets, my steps forming
words, as I invent a prayer, that is not
a supplication, or an invocation,
or devotion to an unknown Lord, but a litany
Aum. Be safe. Namaste.
Dust dissolves. A thin blade
of light pierces through,
reaching the ground where I stay.
