He walks the few steps
from his life to yours.
He points to the center of Mexico
where he comes from, scratches
an invisible map on the palm of your hand.
This woman he walks up hills with
in San Luis Potosi
is here beside him. Speaks English.
Love, with an interpreter. Sometimes
the interpreter falls in love by mistake,
the words passing through her like a current,
like a thin blue wire.
A silver ball turns throwing light around the room –
into a dark corner
where a couple sits unnamed
on a grey sofa, into
a strawberry daiquiri tilting
down a young woman's throat.
His stovepipe jeans, worn white in places.
With one look in your eyes, he tries to enter
your country. Each word he speaks
takes him one step further away
from home.
The pattern of our feet across the floor.
If we dance long enough in one place,
it becomes ours.
A yellow wedge of neon
winks above our heads, a false moon.
It is all we have.
When he asks you your name
you think hard, knowing it is something
he will not give back easily.
Tell me a story, he says in English.
You take him to a room where you undo
the long line of black buttons on his sweater.
You tell him the story.
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