I retire to an evening with a bolt,
a quick locked door and casual wear,
hair tied up as if I were about
to paint mural;

a splash of auburn here,
a bit of red there,
a sip of wine at intervals,
lots of wispy flying ends
and sweeping strokes from a sporting artist.
A story of pesos, poverty,
and wild-tailed birds come to mind,
my name is
Graciela.

A long and loosely fitted
wrap-around skirt is
wrong side out;
a blousing shirt covers the bust,
sandals write around the shins
as dainty toes observe.

There’s a dash of color in a stucco observation,
stoned with chips of pottery, dipped
and mixed with God’s green earth
and subtle rain–

for some reason, I want to shop for an easel,
paint the streets, grace the markets,
maybe fall in love.