In Mexico, where Americans go
to remember how good we have it,
us gringos watch a young
man ascend a coconut tree like
a set of stairs he’s climbed since birth,
he— a striation of cropped black
hair, naked mocha torso, marigold swim
shorts—slides down against chalky
ribs of the brown trunk, prize in hand,
and I think of how I cinch around
you, rigid tree of your body
with its predictable fruit.
He swings his blade along an invisible arc,
the sweet water spills, and I wonder if instead
you are more like a familiar totem pole
whose terrifying faces reflect my own.
Photo by Mohammed Alnaser