At 435 Calle Matias Romero, in Rosarito Norte is a garden,
that of Captain Morgan,
and it blossoms and looms and thrives on a the hillside,
at a vacant lot filled with basura:
it is a cradle of damned dolls buried or strewn in horrific positions,
it is a sea of women’s shoes and plastics and fed-upon shellfish remnants,
home to a mother ground owl and her chicks,
it is where we played yonke golf on the morning before I left you, Mexico.
O, Mexico! I have seen your forests,
lived three of my five day in you alone, with mi familiar:
my girlfriend, her father, his sea-wife, and their four dogs –
three bitches that remind me of the female Triumverate and
a one-eyed Chihuahua that reminds me of Odin –
he is fierce and full of fury and vigor,
with the ability to withstand great falls from heights,
sacrifices made to themselves on a mountain.
These dogs are cultivated, as the Garden is,
a spry coniferous tree, and corn, palm trees,
and berries, and lilies,
tomatoes and lemons, succulents, and perennials,
and cacti of various assortments;
flowers on shrubs and flowers on vines and flowers on offshoot sprigs that
bloom in purpureo and blanco and rojo hondo, in azul and clavel;
it is three-year old grapes now sleeping and dreaming of great globular grapes gleaming.
You hold a cage full of sea-shells and dried-out starfish,
the top of which a spider has made her home, spiraling;
you house an aviary cooing with turtledoves and zebra finches and quail,
and a house full of four hospitable hens that gave me ten eggs to gather on the day before I left it;
the garden was designed by hands that made all this sustain itself,
designed to be merely maintained by you,
have helped to wrought and raise your daughter, whom I love.
She who is self-sufficient and a sweet human being,
smart as a whip and sharp as a tack,
who listens and learns daily,
who fights for knowledge and lives greenly,
who thrives in nature but is still a city girl,
who is as salty as her padre who lived by the sea.
She can hold her own against:
sailors and strippers and artists,
drunk salsa dancers,
small and sad Mexican children,
evangelists that lie about condoms’ effectiveness,
and her father, who like Noah,
drank too much wine in his land-locked boat and
uncovered history with loosened lips,
and she, the good daughter,
the ivory ivy he raised so well,
saw him safely abed and went to
stare at the stars atop the RV with me, while he slumbered beneath.
Captain, O, Captain,
how does your garden grow?
With care, arranged with a magical flair,
thriving on the wealth you bestow.