The Chichimecas

The Chichimecas are in the hills. They have built a huge bonfire. I am at my window with a telescope counting shadows flickering in front of the flames. There must be at least a thousand Chichimecas and their many dogs, for they are the dog people. Maybe there is only one Chichimeca and his dog pacing back and forth in front of the fire trying to make me think that there are one thousand Chichimecas in the hills. There are Chichimecas in the alley. They have taken down the street signs and built another bonfire—STOP, SCHOOL CROSSING, SLIPPERY WHEN WET, the Chichimecas are showing a preference for S’s slithering into smoke. The Chichimecas have broken into the abandoned train station from one of my poems. The one where the sound of the plastic tips of my shoelaces clicks against pavement like lobsters. They are cooking the lobsters in a steel drum. After they have devoured the lobsters, they lie down with their dogs. Sniff, sniff, sniff, sniff the dogs. Sniff, sniff, sniff, sniff the Chichimecas, for they have found aerosol paint cans and they are holding rags soaked with paint spray to their noses. This makes the moon come down. Chichi mommy,chichi mommy, chant the Chichimecas as they fall asleep in a pile with their many dogs. Chichi mommy as they snore and dream that the stars are dripping milk into their open mouths.