The wine of uncharted days, Their unsteady stance against the working world, The intense intoxication of nothing to be done, A day off, The dance of the big-hearted dog In us, freed into a sudden green, an immense field: Off we go, more run than care, more dance— If a polka could be done not in a room but
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When There Were Ghosts
On the Mexico side in the 1950s and 60s, There were movie houses everywhere And for the longest time people could smoke As they pleased in the comfort of the theaters. The smoke rose and the movie told itself On the screen and in the air both, The projection caught a little In the wavering mist of the cigarettes. In this way, every story was two stories And every character lived near its ghost. Looking up we knew what would happen next Before it did, as if it the movie were dreaming Itself, and we were part of it, part of the plot Itself, and not just the audience. And in that dream the actors’ faces bent A little, hard to make out exactly in the smoke, So that María Félix and Pedro Armendáriz Looked a little like my aunt and one of my uncles— And so they were, and so were we all in the movies, Which is how I remember it: Popcorn in hand, Smoke in the air, gum on the floor— Those Saturday nights, we ourselves Were the story and the stuff and the stars. We ourselves were alive in the dance of the dream.