August

I am nothing if not the night. And here, the night does not simply show up: it is birthed. Heaving and fresh. In heavy blues, like ten thousand pounds of velvet curtain, sweeping indigo across the dirt floors and nodding palm fronds. I am everything except the sun, in her slow retreat leaving some corners in shadows, others woven in milk-gold threads; a lattice work of a days' dues on hot acrid streets, panhandling mangos, sombreros, electric pink soda, leather bracelets, packets of chiclets, charred and greased meat. They play checkers on the street corner and follow women with their folded eyes, sometimes murmuring under their breath. "Mamacita." "Que linda." "Preciosa." And then return to their game, to their cigarettes and their sweating beer cans. In the mornings, the square is a pastel colored bird bath, damp from the breath of the night, dewey with new light, dappled with the flaps of pigeon wings and the soft scratch of brooms across tile and concrete, misty-eyed and lethargic, preparing for high sun and crowds. Later, the streets will be slathered with butter, sugar, cologne, and smoked meat. But now, only freshness, splashes of bleach, soap, and the opaque residue of clouds coming come from a night of dancing with stars.