Julieta Roll

Part I

In the back of a rattling pickup,

I am waiting to see a Toucan lady or a

clipped orchid, whichever comes first.

Humidity has yet to unfurl my curls,

So I ask how far we are from Pacific.

Pickup shutters stop at a gas station where

a man is opening sodas for daughters in lawn chairs.

No point in asking for direction, east or west a jungle

is the same.

I am swinging legs over the road,

I am in constant fear of becoming

a phantom,

We’ve tread here before,

I swear the palms were bent

the same.

Part II

A lake is a mistake of the earth

That is to say

A pooling of fresh water

Clear like sunday mirrors

Once I climbed down from a pickup

Walked a mile

Found Lake like searching animal

I could have mistaken the pool for

dirty glass, algae green blushing and

perhaps a snake curled at the bottom

There is a cave underneath unseen by

human eyes

That evening I sat on the rim

Dipped my sandal in

Recalled my baptism

Orchid

There was a baby born in Jalisco sand and they looked in her eyes and called her Orchid. Orchid like sliding down a dirt mound like iguana’s molt like a town swelling from a single rusted tugboat to eight miles wide. Moping in a humid market her mother only learned to sell keychains and jamaica; the remains of afternoons laying in spare room with the rattle of washing machines. Orchid swears her hair tastes like shells and the dog under the tortilla stand so she bathes in Pacific and untangles the knots. After, she dreams of Puerto Vallarta as an island, severed by a heavy crab claw. Tell me, she asks God, who am I becoming?

Yellow hum

Somewhere between an open door and a twisted curtain I am under a streetlight—humming verses that promise ironed skirts, untangled knots, and a drive to the hills blasting Marvin Gaye til car shakes. I recall hiding in house curtains pretending to vanish twice—once at eight and once at twelve. Both times coaxed out by sunrise on the kitchen wall. I am always in search of a warm room where the moon is enough to make lamps yellowier and his face curved. Isn’t it enough that I hum walking home? Going zig-zag through a neighborhood dripping in vines that smell like my elementary school. Am I enough that he shows me a mural—of sea creatures turning their bodies.

He is in constant awareness of the phantom—an afternoon apparition unsure of its form.