COMING HOME
PAT ANTHONY
BY
I’m crossing the Zócalo, alligator heels
clicking across the cobblestones, blisters
burning the backs of my feet, marbling
my toes. I keep half an eye on where I’m
going, the other on the deep, darkness
hovering in doorways, the whispered
Buenas noches, Señora. I don’t bother
to correct them, but it’s as if they can
see my swelling belly, the baby lurching
with my uneven steps, the swing of my
bag. I head for the cross street leading
into the Colonia, the lights burning from
the concrete framed windows in their
faded pastels like women in worn out
dresses, bare feet tucked into the extra
folds. Tonight there will be nothing
but empty air, faces with flaming cheeks
from the hot liquor but no food, the rind
of lemons still in the sink. I search for
a piece of bread left over from the children’s
breakfast. Ease off the shoes. Why, he asks me,
after a day of playing fútbol, don’t you take
the bus? I look at the socks thrown on the floor,
gone grey with road dust and again, have no reply.
Gyroscope Review 16-4
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