Gris-Gris, an online journal of literature, culture & the arts


by Tina Kessinger

Walking up Tinoco y Palacio,
the long hill, wrought-iron
windows and
the hammering swath
of sun. A black dog
gazes dreamily from
green-water shade.
A giant among small brown
people, I’m unearthed
in their gaze,
the geranium music
of their tongue strumming
the violet air. Welcome
the choke-fume
of buses,
the altars with their
bloody garments,
the ancient mahogany faces
of shoe-shine boys.
Walking up the long hill,
my green self
is turning
flying into all the
blue doorways.