Arrival, Oaxaca, Mexico

by Mary Jane Ryals

The courtyard of this Southern Mexico
apartment is shaded by the smiling

boughs of a grapefruit tree that furnishes
home to a pair of birds who politely

shit the floor, and where we wake mornings
to georgic bells that fill the air,

a rooster that ki-ki-keyrie-ki's early and
surrounds the city sounds.  If words could,

they would transform into perfume of
grapefruit-blossom scent.  When did this

happen in my own country, that lounging
requires leaving it?  At home, we are all

cars, errands, work.  The color here—
bougainvillea petals gang up together

on the wall in hot bouquets of rojo, coral y
blanco.  Flowers weed out fierce while we

aristocratic americans lounge in our ruining state.
This American culture, 2,000 years old, could give

a bird's shit about us.  What relief, the pressure off!
The end of day goes violet here, so nearly

blood orange, it makes me weep color.