Girl from Guadalajara

Trifling middle seat,
Travesty yellow airplane,
You know, the usual.
A girl with barren eyes sits crumpled,
Exhales fog the glass.
She is soaking wet.
A purple strap bisects her tiny breasts.
Nipples, erect against her top,
She is dying from the general cold.

Barren eyes fixed to oval window,
In shame or something special.
And here, she prays quietly for sudden death:
Santa María, Madre de Dios.
Kissing lips smudge a baby blue rosary.
You see her presence in the window, and she, yours.

Her face shines with tears or something worse.
She owns that caricature brown eyes
Like you only see in a fly-blown magazine.

Like a big dark hole in an empty house,
Where, once, a nice Christian family died in a fire,
She is tempting, she is an omen, she is void.
You see something,
Some movement in that house, some special spirit.
There is an excellent nothingness,
Save the husk of a girl crying on a yellow plane.

She, with barren eyes is beside herself,
Wrapped up, a broken daughter,
A species after your own heart.
And while these other gremlins,
Apply body and soul to the severe task of sitting in place,
While they dance the aisles like motherless imps,
Rubbing oiled stomachs,
Exchanging pleasantries, small-talking,
Gathering bonus miles,
While they chase after mustardy toddlers,
Pressing matters bubble to an ulceration.

You steal glances,
You fester in your little mind,
Stirs and struggles,
Knees brush elbows,
Needs die, float to the surface,
You do things prescribed by a cuero in a blue beret with a fake smile,

This way, you kill time, cook courage.
Until you are whispers away from landing.
Until she has cried herself into a private wisdom,
And the music finishes with a powerful climax.
Qué hora es?
Crying girl asks the time,
A broken watch,
And this much, you fess.
Es hermoso. She says.
You are lost.

She turns to her window,
You behold the affairs of the souls of Kansas City with her,
The white and red strips of drowsy cars,
Snaking about bottomless freeways.
Pinch your knees for nerve,
To utter some manner of astute small talk:
What is your name?
What is the color of your eyes?
What do you think of death?
What is life?

She asks your name.
After three valiant tries,
She tells you hers.
Isabella, a girl from Guadalajara.
New babysitter in a new Lenexa household
Amid some plush white privilege,
And vinyl picket fences,
And 8PM sprinklers,
And interlocked driveways,
And Sunday mojitos,
And things, more things.

Isabella owns strong calves,
She’s been running.
Running to amuse a tickled god,
From a turf war by the Medellin cartel,
Thru barrios to enter a music competition,
From a large vaquero man that loved with fists,
In the rain to catch a yellow plane.

Running from Guadalajara,
Isabella, born one Tuesday in May,
In that birth place of the Mariachi,
In the same house where the inodoro doesn’t flush,
Where her abuela muy loco had gone muy loco in the middle of an intelligent convo,
Born to an unspecial sun-beaten menaje,
With a small stoic padre who desires to outlive his sciatica.

Isabella has never seen the snow,
In days she will.
Without goodbyes, you part ways,
She hunts down a red car,
Breaks into a smile.
You hunt down the husband,
As to the origin of her tears,
You have demons of your own.

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