Refrigerator Magnets

The beach island woman did a magnificent turquoise dance in my blue heart and by evening I devoured her eternal morning beauty, though Cupid burns chocolate lust and desires to wave flames all night.  I felt the fresh moonlight embrace my tongue for a sacred caress with naked hands, and music between us clouded this delicious fantasy under a gentle ocean aroma of champagne.

There is no moon--the colinas of Salina Cruz are too tall, too steep.

I am tired; tired of hills. Tired of walking. Tired of the smell of burning, of castoffs, of gutter-rubbish. Tired of junk-metal chabolas,[1] of dead-end roads.

I follow the rim of the street-lip; discreet—near-invisible in the unlit edges; Close my eyes.

Gather my jacket in close around me, pull it tight; shut it to the curb lamps, to the door-lights, the tapers in the windows—

Shut it to the voices; costermonger voices. Cantina voices. Dog voices:

Shut it to the calls for Matias Romero, for Ixtepec, for Juchitan-tan-tan. Calls of "Ven, Papacita"[2]

from the crimped putos and night walkers pussyfooting behind their drab maquillaje and jacklit posterns.

He stopped me at the corner:

A short man. A swart man; a lank, A-shirt, rag-head man. Chupado[3]:

He holds up a hand: the empty one; tatuada with gang signs: Tres Puntos.[4] Lurches:
"Help me, for the love of God." he stammers. "Me voy a matar:"[5]

He sits on his heels, rests his face on his cauama,[6] on the adobe.

I turn to pass him, pass his ratty piss-reek alley. Drunks always try to touch me, wheeze in my face, cry on my shoulder for money.

He touches my shoulder. "Talk to me, Hombre. talk. Talk! Hablame pues, por el amor de Dios!”[7]

You are a man of God, no?" Gestures up. I nod.

He blinks hard, falls back a pace— "You must talk . . . forgive me—pero tu, que sabras?[8] My sins . . . I've sinned against God, against projimo?[9] Tu sola, Virgen Santisima!"[10] Crosses himself.

I don't want to know.

"You must!" Pauses profoundly, extends his finger; "you are hombre de Dios. My sins . . . I killed a man. Two men; one was murder;" he bends over, sobs, bites his knuckles.

I cannot pass him. He has lain down in the middle of the street.

"What do I do? Tell me . . . how am I forgiven hombre de Dios? Tell me!" I prop him up.
"Save me hombre de Dios!" He tugs my hand. Begs.

I cannot save him.

"You don't understand: you didn't feel how the knife entered his neck, opened it . . . you didn't feel his sangre, his blood, how it spilled! How like a cochino!"[11] He weeps—sibilates in his throat; slavers on his bleeding knuckles—heaves, wipes.

There is blood on his shirt; he has broken the bottle somehow, cut his palms.

"And where is his money? I don't have his money! I am too tired and sick to live, too covarde[12] to kill myself."

He is screaming now (not at me)."My crime—you must talk to me—you must absolve it: you are hombre de Dios!"

Now whispering: "Por mi culpa," fist beating his chest, turning little circles;"Por mi propia culpa."[13]

He burbles incoherently; can’t hear me.
I leave him on the curb—desperate, babbling: chewing his fingers—too terrified to confess to the police, to the priest, to abreact: just suffer, self-flagellate; cut himself on the broken glass, Embriagarse[14] . . .
[1] hovels
[2] A prostitute’s come on.
[3] Drunk
[4] Lit. Three points. A gang whose symbol is three dots tattooed on the hand.
[5] I’m going to kill myself
[6] 2 liter glass beer bottle
[7] Talk to me, for the love of God!
[8] What would you know?
[9] Fellow man
[10] You only, Virgin most holy! An invocation of the Virgin Mary
[11] pig
[12] Coward(ly)
[13] Lit. for/through my own blame/fault. Part of the Catholic liturgy
[14] Inebriate himself