LAURIE THOMPSON

Inhaling Gardenias in Oaxaca The chilly winds of December swirl around the street dogs  curled on the edge of the curb. It sounds cliché but there is an old blind man playing the guitar and singing "Dos gardenias para ti" and within seconds a woman wearing embroidered juipiles from Juchitan passes with a basket of gardenias perched carefully on her head as if fresh eggs. Ten pesos for two days of fragrance so rich you cannot keep your eyes open against it and you hold your breath so long you feel dizzy and giddy forgetting where you are and with whom. A scent fuller than the rising harvest moon Sweet as a lover's first kiss. Breathing Carried through the storm on some wave of grace and cure I exhale landing on the cornsilk nest of your ombligo dark, soft, warm. I inhale your honeyed voice, smoky tongue faint hint of salt and mescal. I exhale my wobbly orbit of days 24 bright Mexican moons pass. Beside the road an injured Northern loon struggles for flight. I catch my breath and hold it.   Waiting For the sun to rise the melon to ripen the test results the ballots to be recounted the flood waters to recede the letter you sent me in April For the warm wind the bluebirds to hatch in the nest outside my window the smell of you on my pillow to fade the first American female President the shadow of the jacaranda to reach my doorstep the tear gas to dissipate the final divorce papers For the season of wild mushrooms for the dog of vengeance inside me to sleep the dog of forgiveness to awaken For the landing the sound of your laughter the full moon For the reason to return Image above: shoaibnzm2.blogspot.com