In the blue hour,
the negrita cries, I hide
not to deceive the darkness
or myself…

La negrita is not far
from where I stand
her eyebrows
her one hand…
I too am visible now, behind the tree
behind the night, behind the cry
and all I want to know
is her name
and ask her:
have you ever heard
your heart undressing,
seen a stray dog at midnight,
realize he understands this hour
better than we will understand any hour?
have you seen yourself in every woman
with your eyes or in women with eyes
more difficult than yours?
have you ever really heard your voice,
echoing in your nipples?

She offers me tea,
we end up drinking coffee,
trying to reach the bottom of the cup
unafraid….

now, my teeth are stained, my English
failing me, my Arabic fading
my Spanish starting to make sense…
we are in a finca now--
perhaps we are safe,
perhaps we desire nothing else,
but I can’t stop bowing in prayer
five times a day,
my country comes to me, tells me:
Compatriota- I will always find you
no matter what language you are speaking.

I don’t know if I left the window open,
or the electric fireplace on,
not sure if my name is Natalya or Navarro,
but I vaguely remember
someone calling me by one of those names
No one found the book
Octavio Paz dedicated to me
or the notes I wrote about
the streets of Mexico City
and the person I once was
three blocks away from the taqueria.
Who can explain intermissions--
they come to your life
without warning and all you can do
is wait until it’s time to start again.
Meanwhile, I feel the heat burning
on the tip of my hip--
a feeling shivering electric
on the flesh, the fever of what
I no longer know.

Because we no longer heard the hoofs of horses,
Because we no longer saw them galloping, no longer saw
them standing on the coral shore, we asked,
where does the music of the human voice hide?

Can you find its song
in the sea, uncertain of its waters,
in the field, uncertain of its hay,
in the cherry blossoms, uncertain of its soil,
between miles of fallen trunks,
or perhaps in the freeze after the heat?

Because we no longer saw what is holy and wet,
because we called the Titans and the horse thieves
and the only message they sent back was:
In the end, nature will be
roaring, drowning, ruining, ruling,
we asked, can we dare love to find
the legend abandoned in musica
as grass reaches out for our weeping.

Maybe when you are ready for music
           every instrument around is broken
Maybe when you are ready for freedom
           your heart can no longer beat
Maybe when you grow madness
           you find what you were meant to see
Maybe if you show me
           how desire begs
play a tune in E minor
           the slow river of wings will
reveal itself.

But it had to come to this instead:
           a broken violin
           the heart, unsolved
           an argument with Jesus or Mohammed --
           exile has its ways.
           Now your breath is a flat tune
           limping its way around
           the wake of your mouth.