Camino De Las Flores – Spanish for the road of blooming flowers,
the road of my childhood, where flowers never bloomed.
Adobe homes scattered, purposefully, with a few red brick mixed in
swimming pool at each one, never used, landscape modern, desert design.
Inhospitable the neighbourhood and its people, twenty years on the same road
and not one name did I know, circumstances yes, but names no.
Evenings spent on the balcony inhaling the dry Sonoran air
watching the sun fill the rocky skyline edge with master colours
until a blanket of black covered the valley, starry lights took over
with howls and gunshots reverberating in the hours of dark.
Bone chillingly cold at two a.m. in the desert, every blanket from the house
outside, mother never noticed children missing in the night,
terrified by the early hours, ghost stories about Billy The Kid,
Indian burial grounds and scalped palefaces stored in preparation
of a new day on the road where the neighbours never speak, excruciating
the heat by mid-day, hidden from sight all signs of life.