6. La Fayuca Álvaro Obregón
Exile Literary Quarterly
Vol. 40 #1
Girl on metro this morning with wet hair,
doing her eyes with a spoon. Her skinny
thighs in pink leggings under cut off jean
shorts, hostage to a new media audiovisual posture of movement, with a hash pipe key
chain dangling in chainlink from her blue
jean’s sidepocket, but as a sort of Catholic
girl iconoclast, lost in thought & uninvolved.
Coming-out at La Fayuca Obregon, with a little
help from the habit, kicking a coca cola red can white, to a gentrified retro-colonial wine bar, where we bärˈbi ch ərit in pulpfiction: breakfast
is wine, warm croissants with apple butter, carmelized pear with a hot plate of pig skin
and braised Oaxacan palm hearts, in a gentrified district on chairs of red polyethelene.
Business woman in grey pencil skirt,
her blouse clinging to her wet back,
walking-by with an uptown hauteur,
beside a sidewalk marimba band
in guayaberas, who picked-up
on the sashay of her slow thighs walking
by by slowing the song down to souvenir
the sight, and the men at the bar came
out of the bar, and the people
at patio tables put down their pie charts.
And when I came out the apartment
a woman in a housedress and apron
was crying, she had pancake batter
on her hands and apron, and flour
on her apron, just standing there doing
time in the doorway with just the right
amount of sorrow to sustain jouissance
in the stranger I, as two backpacking
blonde women snapped camera
phone photostills to souvenir the sight.
Under a cool sunless hurrying grey that was but a moment ago all open peripheral blue.
As a short woman with sulking breasts in a blue t-shirt sold fruit by megaphone from a flatbed half ton.