Miraflores

The wind off the Andes plays with my hair,
Parting it to the side with the affection
Of a mother greeting her long absent son.
Spanish and Quechua intertwine in a web
That looms over me as the Sun-God looks on.

I take my first steps off the platform
And onto the paved roads leading me to the ancient ruin
Where my afternoons were spent.
Turning around, I curse softly,
Dwelling on the past is not my policy.

Lima has its share of charm.
Today I’ll allow myself a stroll down Calle Miraflores.
Sipping chicha morada, I’ll walk up and down
This golden street, stopping only
for my first desayuno lurin at La Flor de la Canela.

After paying the bill, I’ll ask the waitress for directions.
“Pasando El Rancho Restaurante, pe Jovencito. Al final de la
Cuadra, justo al frente de la tienda Argos.”
I’ll tip her extra well and then steal a kiss,
Pausing only to regain my bearings.

Finally, I’ll arrive at my Abuela Milona’s house.
I’ll return to soccer balls, turtles with three legs,
And chicken coops on the third floor.
The carapulcra will be on the stove, burning,
Just how I left it. The claveles still blooming in the garden.

I’ll arrive just in time to find a car bomb
blowing apart my childhood…