Alveraz Ricardez

Dreams of Sinaloa

horseback on a clay trail in jalisco

i find two vanilla cream scorpions

one on it's back and one in tears

i ask the sad scorpion if he knows

the way back to colima

his sun cracked voice

whispers between spittled sand

'save me from being without my isabella'

his eyes roll back and his arms

lift with the rise of my boot

i scoop the dead lovers into my palm

and bury them on the side of the

clay trail in jalisco

Letter #16

Dear Helen,

There is a little native boy outside my hut window. If I move more than two fingers around this pencil he will hear me and alert the tribesman. Last night I was able to bribe him with a piece of carob left over from the care package you sent. He allowed me to pace my room.

Tell Douglas to paint me a picture and hang it over my workbench. Be sure he uses the entire canvas, you now how the white space drives me mad.

I can hear his eyes, Helen, the little native boy. I can hear him sniff at my movements. He has a broken foot, a fishing accident. He drags it when he walks, so I hear him shuffle, drag, shuffle, drag, all around the god damn perimeter.

I think about killing him sometimes. One of my hands could fit around his entire neck, Helen. I could be swift about it. Maybe when this full moon breaks and the crickets realize there is no audience for their orchestra. I don't know. It was just a thought.

I will write again in the morning.

William