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by Charles P. Ries
Reclining after sex, I turn toward the south as day's final light
floods in over the hips and breasts of my Mexico. Coal black
hair, red lips and brown eyes. She satiates me into silence and
I willingly dissolve into her olive colored thighs. A full woman
whose face glistens like polished copper in morning light.
A soft still snow falls around us and, but for her lips, we would
be invisible in a cloud of white. Dry gullies, morning mists and
dusty streets speak to us in the soft whispers of old lovers, who
communicate more with raised eyebrows than young lovers do
in breathless paragraphs.
An image of Our Lady of Perpetual Tears appears on the pavement
before us in an oil stain looking curiously like Our Lady of Guadeloupe.
I kneel down before it and kiss my virgin queen in her guise of street
Mariachis in silver studded, skin tight black pants sing us a hymn and
then a lover's ballad for five pesos. Angels whisper to us in Spanish
as Mexico slips her tongue between my cold white lips and offers me
sweet water from her full ample breasts.