Invoked every sundown, it’s you, painted on clouds
rouging our treasured plain and all who walk it,
with leaf-fresh kids and women damp from traveling,
city-bound, in the radiance of a just-stopped shower;
it’s you, mother eternally young, courtesy of death’s
plucking hand, rose at...

Jorge, no matter where we go together
there is always a great national myth bearing down.
The one I come from claims three thousand years
of history. The government funds artists to prove this.
It’s why there’s an official stamp on Carlos Fuentes’s
first novel,...