Guaymas, 1976
I arrived alone at night in Guaymas
puffing train running from home to sea.
My quest being the ocean called Pacific.
Did everyone here clutch a flustered chicken
or was this peck and squabble the lingo of Guaymas?
I was new. "Cerveza" and "baño" my best Spanish.
At the station I bought a tamale, pointed my Spanish
It cost ten pesos, saw shiny switchblades sold in Guaymas
laid like sticks on this station platform in grande Mexico.
Inside a cab I said, "ocean Pacific" and swam my arms like the sea
beneath pictures of Mary pasted above, now a sheltered chicken
beneath a western sky I was finally to meet the Pacific.
Driver found a half-derelict hotel by the Pacific.
I paid my fare, mouthed gracias. I tried to speak Spanish.
I walked a shadowy hall cut rough by dim light. I was no chicken.
I was in Mexico, by myself in a place called Guaymas
where in the silent night, I was called to the din of a galloping sea.
What wonder. A billion silver stars arced infinitely above Mexico.
Beneath such a velvet night sky candle-lit across Mexico
I stepped along a rustling road to the Pacific
and got onto the sand that flanked the sea.
The waves were foaming, whispering in Spanish
our friendship still mysterious but I reveled in Guaymas.
I was so brave in this town, proudly never a chicken.
Somewhere I heard the cackle of a chicken
in my room, crocks of dry sage scented Mexico.
From kindly vestigial dreams, I awoke to Guaymas
and dressed, yearned alone for the Pacific.
I paid for my room, cheaply in Spanish
and put up my red tent by the sea.
I had scant pesos, yet a peaceful chicken
drank cafe negra said por favor in Mexico
where the streets were placid in the town of Guaymas.
Oh but the glorious, restless majesty of the Pacific
Yo estoy feliz I sobbed in grateful Spanish
at peace by my brine-muggy tent by the sea.
Gaping new to Mexico, by tiny Guaymas I watched the sea,
dreamed some Spanish, was never a chicken. I was twenty-five,
madly young, at last I went home. For my whole life I desired the Pacific.