Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

brisa salada sopla sobre nuestros cuerpos noche otoñal

The key you have not lost                             is there between those spaces, not by or in, but flanked between the here and there, living like a fugitive on your skin. It is a prelude to our memoirs, the text of a poem fused with nectarines, an exploration through Copper Canyon , visions of Haiti ’s angels licking my ears, a hypnotic dance on sands matching the colors that mesh upon your hips, an experiment we refuse to put down, an invitation to cross the doorway of the home I no longer occupy. The key you have not lost is not the manual for a digital camera, or calendar entries for next month’s readings. It is not the Popular Mechanics article you wrote to put food on our table, or a classified add on craigslist. It wants to be the bungee jump into the pangs of a deer in heat, the obituary of bolted doors, or a listing for all the vacant walls on which we'll scribble our graffiti.

from the text of a slavers journal, words that give history an iron taste