Jalisco, Mexico
On the side of the highway, a horse freshly dead—
internal cavities exiting the body like red balloons,
one leg kicked out sideways, black sails of zopilotes circling overhead,
and I drive by, chewing on the bones of grievances, both new and ancient.
Dead dogs litter highway edges
take a day or so to explode under the heat of Jalisco’s desert sun—
inflating one day, pancaked to concrete the next,
leaving bumps of skull and ribcage ringed with matted fur.
Everywhere, masking grief with I’m fine, thanks.
Possums, snakes, a toad shape stamped
onto the pavement, birds that mistakenly stopped
to eat the grain spilled on the speed bumps;
by the next day the balloon has deflated, the horse’s body
shrinking, wrinkling, birds and worms feeding
everyone who’s ever been left behind, wailing.
Every day I drive by, witnessing the necessary work
of decomposing, composting, nature cycling,
until one day, what’s left of the horse disappears—
someone sets the grass on fire,
cremating everything living and dead.
All I want are gestures of tenderness—
that time a puppy snuggled up to its mother,
curbside, licking her ears
as blood ran out of her mouth.
Whispering yes, yes — even as the swallows and hawks skim overhead.
even as everywhere, everywhere, there’s another
skinny dog, roadside, teats hanging low.
I want to whisper yes to the whole world,
even the charred edges, smoke still rising.
Lisa López Smith is a shepherd and mother making her home in central Mexico. When not wrangling kids or rescue dogs or goats, you can probably find her wandering the wilds of Jalisco. Recent publications include: Maine Review, Sky Island Journal, Mom Egg Review, and Tiferet, and some of these journals even nominated her work for Best of the Net and the Pushcart prize in 2020. Her first chapbook was published by Grayson Books in 2021.
Photo by Thomas Plets from Pexels