I am writing all this down—sheared asphalt,
groves of mango and saman,
two white crosses moored by the highway,
side-by-side, ripe with symbolism,
but someone else’s.
Also noting the names freshly painted in black
and the crimson and amber flowers spilling
over ochre earth.
In memory.
As we descend behind an orange-tarped truck,
surrounded by exuberant, ravenous green
A bust of the virgin, painted vivid blue and yellow,
looking startled,
emerges from a chartreuse wall over a dorway.
A doorway bordered entirely with minute hand-carved stars.
Fits in nicely with the two crosses,
thinks the cortex.
Trop de vert, demaciado!
insist the interneuron connections.
While the living flames of poinsettia,
unbearably bright, burn a hole
in the middle of my forehead.
