Later and Before

When I think of Oaxaca
I remember the Zócalo
where they sold pipa del agua
and chocolate dripping from paper cups.
Where Sunday afternoons brought older couples swaying tall salsa
to the discordant strains of the band.
Where the dark-walled church’s stained glass windows
struggled with the odd ray of light.
Where the ghost of D.H. Lawrence
wrote in that park about Zapotec mornings.
Where you read him aloud to me there.
Where you sat next to me on the bench.
Where I looked up and you sent a smile.

Later there was so much darkness
even the Mexican sun
couldn’t break through.

But that day, that day
you murmur to yourself
of the glory of the words
shimmering on the page.
Sugar birds sing the praises.

©Eileen P. Kennedy