Last Curve to Masatepec

by Nikolas Wilson

I can still remember
Turning the last curve
On the winding mountain
Road to Masatepec,

Sitting next to Jenny,
The pretty
Mexican with the bent nose
(She taught me Salsa)

On a bus
Hotly crowded,
Roaring disdain fully
Into the country town.

Its amber hillside
Caught the sun,
Setting,
Warm,
Golden.

That silhouetted
The venerable church
Dome on the hilltop,

Above
The geometric sprinkle
Of housing stacking
Itself up
The side of the hill.

The countryside all around,
Rugged,
Serene,
Motherly.

The hazy blue mountains’
Crispy, patchy fields
Were

As vast and quiet
As reminiscence
In the dusk.