by Arlene Rubenstein
I’ve been told there is a sleeping lady
in the Sierra Madre Mountains.
She lay on her back
you can see the contours of her old face
her hair of dense trees
her eyes and mouth of, well,
naked rocks I would imagine.
Two equal masses rise up
her breasts perhaps
I keep looking, eyes peeled, aching
at times I think I see her
then, no.
The image seems too far-fetched
after all, they’re just mountains for God’s sake!
I rest my eyes
and wait.
Soon, the sinking sun does his magic
the hills are a meld of
wine, licorice, pomegranate
golden shadows deceive, deepen, define
crevices outline her mammoth head
and slender neck
within seconds the mountain delivers
a masterpiece!
can be creepy
can be holy
the beholder decides.
The sky blackens
and I sleep.
There is comfort in knowing
the Sleeping Lady will be around
for a very long time.
Stormy New Year’s Day on Calle Allende
Usually, a hot and dry
uphill climb,
well-worn curvy Calle Allende now suffers
a daylong deluge
Early shouts of New Year joy
abandon her long strong arm
that stretches from boardwalk to freeway
Old Senora Rosa emerges
from her tiny corner store
hoping to attract
the little faces that love her
But she hears only muted laughter
and the dimmed chorus of playful dogs
as all have ducked into
their small boxy homes
that proudly sit atop
Allende
Flat-topped slabs accept the storm
spilling onto lower slabs
eventually joining pretty puddles below
on Allende
Cobblestones freshly bathed
prepare for tomorrow’s sandals and sneakers
perhaps catching a clumsy human
Then, the sun will do it’s own drenching
and my neighbor’s rooster will
bring life back to
Calle Allende.
Winter Wonderland
Okay, I’m pretty sure I just died and went to Heaven. It is 5:30pm,
74 degrees, a blend of Stoli vodka and Mexican peach juice from a tiny box you give your child to make him happy. A spritz of lime. My orgasmic vegee panini, accompanied by two indescribable sauces bought from an adored restaurant I can see from my patio. The New York Times Tuesday crossword puzzle, torn from Puerto Vallarta’s weekly publication that makes the tourists happy. And then there’s the sunset…a crimson cloak of comfort over my seemingly-inconsequential life. From an all-day warm breeze to a slightly cooler one, my curtains quiver and dance with joy. They brush, sensually, across my body. This assures me that life is a wonderland, any time of year, because I choose to make it so.
