Smith’s Supermarket, Taos, New Mexico, at the Fifteen-Items-or-Less Checkout Line by Sandra Cisneros

Smith’s Supermarket, Taos, New Mexico, at the Fifteen-Items-or-Less Checkout Line

 

The baby-faced cholo in front of me

gently drops a divider bar between

what’s his and mine.

 

On my side, a six-outlet surge

protector for my computer,

and a fireproof glass cup

for my Lux Perpetua candle,

a votive so powerful

it self-destructs.

 

On his,

a plastic bottle of store-brand vodka.

It’s noon, but somewhere

it’s happy hour.

 

Baseball cap bad-ass backwards.

Black leather from neck to knees.

One brow and ear stitched with silver.

And on his neck, “Rufina” in wispy

ink I would kiss if I could. Fool,

it takes one to know one.

 

I drive away wondering

if Rufina is helping him

drink his bottle of forget.

Or if it’s she who is regret.

 

I write till the dark descends.

My cell warm tonight.

Candles. Copal.

Outside my window,

mountain without a moon.

Buddha in lotus.

Silent and still.

 

By ten, hot bath, lavender salts.

Flannel buttoned to the neck.

Am certain Rufina is not

as happy as I am tonight,

in bed with my love,

a book.