by Adrian Coto
I followed drops of neon green
through a martian rust haze.
They slid suspended, ever a step ahead,
a highway of raindrops blown
along an endless window.
Rattling echoes brought death
of silence. The drops shook
and rose, some to pierce the mist,
more to populate the sky.
One became a bony child.
She took me by the hand
and led me to concrete clearing.
There was a plaza, a festival,
a sign that read Boyle, a sprawl
of crystal sugar homes.
There was music: vihuelas,
guitarrones, trompetas, arpas.
Charros and eternal grins played.
A river of crimson roses flowed West.
There were dancers and flowing dresses
with stars and comets sewn into deep blues.
Machetes clashing in each hand,
they orbited and spun about the square.
At its center stood the man, el cantante,
who stood on a cane and wore a hat
filled with poppies, dahlias, birds of paradise.
He looked into me and sang gold,
“Has llegado a tu época de oro.”
Originally from Los Angeles, California, Adrian Coto is a Mexican American poet, writer, and MFA candidate at New York University.