We Are
67 We Are Nogales, Sonora Maybe we are not supposed to be here but we are. We bump our hips together as we walk. The town is lit with brilliant mid-morning winter sun, the sky a soft accepting blue. Old cars and battered trucks move slowly up and down the streets. A blaze of sun on chrome or glass, half a line of impassioned song, a woman’s voice, stone grin of a man with a tower of caged songbirds—we are swept and swayed. A raven croaks twice from the top of a sign shaped as a boot. Gold tassels bounce in the windows of a bus. Young men stare in envy and lust. With each step the street is more and more ours until it seems we are the business it goes on about. I pick up a tin fish with hammered scales but have to set it back down quickly so my hand can return to the small of her back. An old woman in a bright red rebozo calls us her dear ones, as if the desire aglow in our bodies were already making a family. ...
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