I am the perfect tourist, poem published by Ruth Knafo Setton

      observing fiesta through slits
      in my mask no one knows me
      cares who my father is
      why I have no wedding ring

      I wear the locked mouth
      of Death with a small hole
      for spiked Sangria and pulque –
      the gods’ drink. Thick and clotted

      saliva coats the tongue burns
      tormenta shook
      through town
      stunned branches cling

      to my hair aftershock trembles
      we eat laugh drink
      under redblack sky no one wants
      to be alone tonight

      the dead ride the ferry back to us
      pulque blazes to my thighs
      I have never been this young
      desperate toes gripping mud

      They bite into sugar skulls
      chew pan de muerte
      pull caramel into bony threads
      devour chili'd chunks of cana

      burnt corn falls like teeth
      fried pork twists
      tornado on a spit oil cracks
      a child's cry

      the last mariachi serenades
      red-eyed dogs young man strokes
      his mustache stares at a mound
      of rotting mango peels and bones

      red-cloaked Devil bumps me
      stinking beer almost midnight
      they're coming do you hear them?
      ferry slices through water

      scatters fish and garbage
      Butterflies cluster over my head
      Whisper of wings mother’s tears
      drawing near small hand rubs snot

      into her dress touches me palm up
      Senora she pleads
      Madame Lady
      I feel for my mask

      they're here!
      long fingers grasp
      noses suck me in
      I grab her hand to keep

      from sinking
      in the mud
      A vein of light slashes
      our touching fingers



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