Adobe Oven
I twist my body to squeeze my belly
between the greasy gas range
and yellow-tiled sink counter.
Curse the pendejo who
crammed the kitchen
into an 8×8 box.
Wedge my torso into the cranny by the front door
to escape my sweaty, cramped apartment.
Outside my adobe cave, the West Texas summer
sends a dust devil down my street, tumbleweed in tow.
“Ay! Que calor!” a woman tells me
as she wobbles past.
“Tórrido,” I agree
watching ripples rise from burnt asphalt
where an ancient arroyo once spread.
Weary from 10 hours scouring hotel-suite baños,
her short, heavy legs force her body
further uphill.
Beyond her, the raw sienna rocks
of the Franklin Mountains
open the pass that names the dilating city
stolen from the desert’s domain.
Like angry javelinas,
new malls and nightclubs,
casas y calles
dart into the dusty kiln
of prickly pear and mesquite,
breach the Chihuahuan Desert.
Once a yucca or saguaro thrived
where the concrete front stoop
burns my thighs.
I survey the barrio corner where I live,
inhale menudo from down the street.
Taste sweat that trickles down my face
and wonder if cacti and rattlers
will ever
reclaim their land.