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Date Posted: 06:50:13 07/30/01 Mon
Author: Sarah
Author Host/IP: 166.82.51.61
Subject: Ode to Mexican Herbs, Lovers, Poets

I am not Pablo Neruda’s lover because I would have died in childbirth,
the baby too, from the sadness of his heart. No, I am in Mexico using chaste tree
as a form of birth control, a type invented by the Europeans.
A herb that helps control depression, hot flashes,
unlike the herb Pablo used, barriers against the sperm,
but I digress, not an unusual occurrence, and I wonder what Pablo Neruda
has to do with anything in my life, but later I conceive
thoughts being involved in making hotflashes out of facts,
creating my own world, with danger, poetry, riff-raff, renegades,
and above all good Mexican lovers.

Afterall, they say when in Mexico, do what the Mexicans do, so I try.
Tijuana, a border town down south from Los Angeles,
a roly-poly hombre warns me as I park my car on the side street,
at the Hungry Hiker’s, so I sit by the window to watch for bad hombres,
but merely spot ninos strolling with the ninas and families walking,
but no one with scars, tattoos, squinting eyes, or mean, malevolent features,
and after a second glass of tequila all thought of villains recedes
into a Mexican stand off between my car and the dusty dirt road.
After a third glass, I resign all my possessions to darker worlds of disorder,
and talk meanders around herb usage, and oceans of Pablo’s words
call to me deafly, sounds from waves, and his poetry makes me understand
the kind of excitement and appreciation Helen Keller must have felt.
New words, bit by precious bit, come to me because he cared enough to paint
our listening lives living within the sight of his darkness.

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