San Juan Bautista

The remaining heat of September
entices the red bougainvillea to reveal
the last of her blooms. The lizards crawl
into the cracked adobe walls.
The beds of grass are the warmest place
to recover from previous nights’
of indulgence. The three p.m. sun reflects
off of red-bricked walkways and
white margaritas. Sitting on a stone bench
beside an abandoned shack, you rest
on my lap. I gently toy with the burgundy curls
that blossom over your tight belly.
You speak of a newlywed cottage
in a seaside village, next to stores
of used books and clothes for children.

The warm days retreated,
the flowers dried up,
and your stomach never swelled
with a Springtime child.