The Bridge

He paints
in big brown overalls
and thin leather boots
breasts that defy gravity.

The square house has rounded edges.

A monkey stands on his right shoulder,
her smile thin and wise beyond her years.

Mirror on bed frame reflects hand-painted
cast. Crutch and easel.

There are no lemons in Mexico.

The monkey grins in the background, knowing
yet naive. Soon, even she is subject
to silent betrayal.

Somewhere in the courtyard a baby is crying
in Spanish. He is locked out of a room.

A steep blue staircase leads to a narrow
bridge, where a glittered star plunges.

The piñata is swollen and empty.
My only loyalty is to my monkey, he said.

The hallway leads to the bathtub,
where she lay, blood running down her
feet. You can still see the red on white tile.

It is a beautiful painting.

The melons are ripe and cut in half.
The cord is still connected.
The needle is piercing heaven.

Viva la Vida is the title.

A bee is circling las bugambilias,
aged by the dust and altitude.

He is still eating sour cherries,
still missing his mujer.