You are standing in Doan's house, built strong to fight the upslope in an alluvial valley west of Fresno, hidden from the desert by fading hills revealing secrets one year at a time. In this place we can meet without discretion, where harvest ended long before these early days of October when darkness does not bend troubling even stars navigating from horizon to horizon, and the wind's new chill still feels thick and fertile blowing past fields barren in bounty. In this dream, I can wrap my arms around you as the woman in a photograph I found on a street some years ago of a place I have never been, although now it is Mendoza or La Rioja, and you are staring away from the camera all the while knowing it is there. In this dream I come as teacher and apprentice to you humming with Gardel's birdsong in the kitchen heat, sweat lights your skin, En unos labios ardiente dejar una promesa hips swaying, arms kneading flat dough for semolas quiero calmar los enojos siempre mintiendo amor and sweet bread bakes in the oven In this place I have bent to my knees, prayed for disappeared mothers and stolen sons, swallowed the dirt of your country, just to feel a part of you.