Ajijic

The lengthy lawns of the rich run down
to the lake’s lap. Cats steal chiroles from the nets
where they’re drying on the shore. Dresses and jeans
lie flat below the fish, dancing an ancient, static line.
Their owners’ hair floats in black, soapy masses
on the green sway. I’m stuck in jangling shade, no matter
where I walk, bored as a horse, flies in my vision.
The naked babies are held up, glistening brown.
At the lakeside café, Americans eat seviche
with tan, silvered hands. I came down to the water
to escape the feuding, infallible generations.
In my grandfather’s eye is my father’s eye, and so on.
There’ll be green mango pie and tequila for supper.
The trucks will sing on the highway all night.
These clean girls will circle the plaza clockwise,
entwined in pairs, throbbing to be plucked from the wheel.
I’ll dance in the bar with Mexican boys
who’ll squeeze my ass and tell my white throat, You,
alone, are beautiful. The clothes pale as they dry,
the chiroles darken. A small girl throws sand
at the boldest cats and chatters, rolling her eyes.
They meet mine, then bolt away, as though
I could infect her with my gaze, unfasten her
from her familiar, exacting chore.
As though if I could, I would.