Dead Dog at the Beach
Chacala, Nayarit, Mexico
I was sitting with the old hippie
in his campsite by the beach.
A dead dog in the waves
like a kid’s grotesque float.
The flies swarmed in after each
wave, dispersing as the next one
crashed. We talked of the atrocities
of war and paying required visa
fees to get into Mexico, the dog
bobbing up and down as we spoke.
It felt like home, his campsite, but he
did not offer me a seat. We talked
more about government and the
legalization of marijuana, a ranchero
band playing to the diners in the beach
restaurants, the pulsing drums filling
the beach, the trumpet piercing the air.
As we spoke of things, not quite small
talk, an old fisherman in a white
and blue boat swept in toward
the bloated dog, sliced it open throat
to tail, and hoisted it by the foreleg into
the boat, driving back out to sea, chum
for his next catch. A black dog posted
on the bow, like a telling figurehead.
The Fishermen
Chacala, Nayarit, Mexico
The old fisherman sits on an upturned
plastic white five-gallon bucket, smoking
after a day walking up and down the beach
hawking blankets. His younger compadres
further down, casting and wading in the
shallow surf. Jupiter rising in the western
sky as the waves beat against the shore.
Crowds of locals at the tapas bar under
the palms and bougainvillea eating and drinking
and laughing, woodsmoke and sewage on the air,
ranchero music blaring from a tinny radio.
