Fiction   Essays   Poetry  The Ten On Baseball Chapbooks In Memory

Rose Hunter

In a Pemex in Hermosillo

when rain starts, the first few
drops taking licks from the dust

and then the water wall. A
bumper grill breathes out
more water that comes down again
with all the other
water. The stores with
the placards and the people
shouting “Mochilas!”
are packing up
as I watch
the road flood
into the parking lot
alongside the gas

and continue. D.H Lawrence
is under a piano
“the boom of the tingling strings.” And
the steam that turns to
mist on my face.


Afternoon sun, zócalo,
and the shadow of the other woman
is between two confidantes. The
child: a piece of coral
at her hip. She is mid-stride
with one knee lifted
just so. In front:
the flagpole, and a sign --
the head of a
jester? The shadow of the
cathedral absorbs the rest
including the trees
I remember, shaped like
T-shirts, and with their trunks
of white powder. This was taken
a long time ago, in a place I am
unlikely to visit again. From outside
I hear my eldest say: “Put
on your snow boots and tread
carefully on this ice. That way,
no one will be left behind.”

©2008 by Rose Hunter

Rose Hunter has had poetry in nth position, Word Riot, Cordite, and Contemporary Verse 2, and stories in journals including On Spec, Aethlon, The Barcelona Review, and Storyglossia. She is from Australia originally, spent some years in Canada, and is now teaching in Mexico.

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