New Mexico Mercury

and so is the wind
and so are the oleanders
the wind is bothering.
The porch light is no longer

anything but Mexican.
It’s true; tonight
is full of this miracle.
The river

is finally Mexican and
the house we live in, the bar
at the corner and the rocks
in the yard. The car is Mexican,
the highway, the gas tank,

your shoes. Mexican
as the stoplight, the cat
skittling across the yard,
as the 7-11 and the father
you thought had forgotten.

What isn’t Mexican,
here, my love, tonight?
All thinking has turned

Mexican and don’t forget the cops
and the bodies of
Wal-Mart shoppers—all
of them, I am pleased to announce,

are Mexican. Tonight, how
do you pay your bills?
In Mexican.
How did you hurt
your hand? Mexican.
What did you say?
How do I love you?
Mexican. Mexican.