Poem: Chacala

by Alex Gallo-Brown

Where the sun setting
can still stop
a human cold

Where the waves
lap against the beach
like a cop making his rounds

Where the sky springs pink
like the cotton candy of childhood

and on the shore the people stand in silence
watching the sea and the sun

and the dogs at peace with their fleas

Where the blowfish wash up dying
or already dead

Where the vultures are greasy black
and hesitant

and the greasy, hesitant vultures
come to snack on the dead blowfish

Where the waves never quit

Where the mosquitoes come to visit at night
like old friends
leave with a little blood like
old friends

Where the geckos cackle high in the walls
the snakes keep to themselves
the rats drown in the toilets
and the wasps always wake
on the wrong side of the nest

Where the scorpions skitter along the rocks, scared
to be captured, turned into keychains

Where the Mexicans drain whales of beer

and the Americans tongue strings of cheese
dangling from their chips

Where things are always changing
the waves keep up their work
and the children are never alone