I push aside the clawing leaves of the mango tree,
brooding, imprisoned by the short cement wall
that I attempt to stand on.
The tree tries vainly to clamber over the
faded white large wall to the left of the smaller wall.
It’s branches rest violently on the
rainbow of broken glass shards decorating
the tall imposing fortification.

There’s a cerveza in my hand, a Polar Ice.
I put it to my lips and let it linger before
saying cono as a falling mango almost hits me.
The night air is electric, stirring with heat,
alive running across the skin like
a colony of ants racing across the earth
or like las cucarachas in the bathroom
in the decadent casa of mi abuela.

Over the door to the backyard that’s
all cement and liter,
looms in the sky the moon, Luna.
She sits on top of the house across the street
like Humpty Dumpty.

Could I be the only one in La Fundacion Mendoza,
watching the moon, or am I just a memory
in the backyard, a will-o-wisp?
I watch the moon, wavering, luminescent,
stumble then fall behind the house,
break and disappear away from my view.

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