Glass Poetry Press

Volume One Issue Three

Christopher Flakus

It was somewhere in Mexico

Not Durango, with its scorpion market Where they crawled in glass tanks by the thousands Sold to tourists, frozen in glass or plastic, sometimes sold alive Some of the vendors had been stung Hundreds of times Until they became immune… But no, it was not in Durango Or Zacatecas, the rose city with the statue of Pancho Villa on a hill overlooking everything… Galloping on his great black horse, with sombrero And machete raised high above his garrulous head… Though it has ceased speaking now, to anyone at all No, it wasn"t Pancho Villa in Zacatecas And it was not with the mummies in Guanajuato Shrunken creatures, with skin like folds of moldering leather Dried and lifeless as cured jerky Empty sockets Yellowing teeth, the color of uncovered bone But it was in Mexico, somewhere That summer, when we were driving And I was still a boy Somewhere along the dust and dirt of desert roads…