I walk in the shadow of a colonial
cathedral. Children in plaid and navy

uniforms hurry to school. Their mothers
in cardigans and flip flops snap their gum

and ignore me as they would the annual
two-headed calf display at the fair. The traffic

spews noxious fumes. Norteño ballads
and polkas drift from side street shops, amidst

the sounds of a city grinding to its purpose:
metal shutters clattering open, engines

gunning, the bright taps of horns, bald tires
squealing. I drift past a tiled fountain

in the city center, feeling as ready for the day
as the fluttering edge of the nieve vendor’s

blue umbrella. A crush of tardy, laughing
schoolchildren rushes forward. A pang

tears at me in the way a hawk tears
at a small bird. Will I ever have a child?