the road remembers the bus

you took sixteen summers ago

how your feet left asphalt

to board the tired bus from

Chiapas to boiling Guadalajara

you hated the way sun tickled your arm hairs

how hot air nested in your scalp

but you loved the citrine spires of

Basílíca de la Asunción de María Santísima

you wondered what it would be like to fly

above the chapel

the citrine more saffron

the world less demanding

you would fly over other towns too

Jocotepec Mazamitla Ocotlán

glide fingers across Lago de Chapala

rest on satin shores

the eucalyptus trees

would shield your weary body

while white herons

braid your thick hair

You’d watch the sun fade

behind breathing mountains.

Earth holding you close.