MESCAL

To him the river beds
were like lunar valleys
full of volcanoes, birds
and trees by Calder and Miro.
And the eels' tunnels:
spirals of yellow stripes,
latex arcades, spasms
of those that believe in the dreamtime.
And then tritons appear
that grasp me with their fingers
like the spines of sea anemones
in the name of a mythical order.
I licked her patent leather feet,
and her smooth skin, without scales,
held me tight to her back
and pushed me to the oxygen (a vague taste of salt).
And her lips were like cherries.
And in her burning pubis, a scent
of brown rum or mescal.
Fruit that I now miss:
tomorrow, at the estuary, the only
sound is the hangover of the world.