Yes, my love, this is Mexico.

We came here

on foot.

Don’t you remember? Don’t you believe?

In all honesty,

We got a car

in San Diego.

I wanted a Dodge Aries,

but just as at home, you trusted

Alan Mullally alone.

The 1982 Ford Granada,

was the color of coffee with milk,

and for this I made peace with it —

all the way to Mexico.

When we were crossing the border,

The engine


(the wind wheel, the water wheel,

the swinging weight?)

We left the car.

We walked on foot

across the Gila Desert.

I covered

my hair with a bandana,

took off my red boots,

and treaded right behind you

step by step.

You turned around,

and blew

kisses at me,

with a million of the tiniest sand grains,

and you yelled:

“From this angle you resemble

the wife of Gaspar de Portola, my love.”

“Who is she?”

“Mrs Portola, I think.”

We slept in the desert,

although the city of Alamos

was alight with fires on the horizon.

In the morning I gathered some agave and said:

“I’ll make Mezcal for you”

“Why not tequila?”

“Because we don’t have any sugar.”

When the Sea of Cortez

hit our faces with

a breeze of iodine and salt,

you said:


I took off my t-shirt

and jeans.

You kissed my lips,

entangled in your legs,


drew closer,

held tight,


You smudged the wet sand of El Vizcaino

on my breasts

and my inner thighs.

“Yes, love, this is Mexico,

The Scammon’s Lagoon —

People cannot stay here.”

“We’re just waiting —

for the sea lions,

the sea turtles,

the grey whales,

the blue whales,

the common seals,

don’t be afraid, my love.”