The waves are endless, rushing in to the dunes . They are moody and sleepy or screaming with anger, anarchistic fury fighting destiny. The sounds of the beach are constant., the boys whistle and yell “ay mami ” but it doesn’t bother me.
When I am in Mexico
my name is Maria.
My hair is as black as
the Grammostola spider,
it shines like the crystals of Playa Norte.
At night we disappear into the barrios,
lose ourselves to the funk of Bossa,
sway to the sound of carioca.
You whisper in my ear
” linda Maria“
