(on election night, in the men's residencia) It's come to me, you've come to me, hermano, how happier I'd be simple, a grasshopper- legged brown Michoacana with my knotted scarffull of men's eyes dragging up to the hacienda, with rain coming - And if I'd touched you then, could I have had you? You, with your hot new smoke-smell, your worn briefcase bulging with God and tomorrow's headlines: 'The liberals have taken back the country' and 'Jefe Alboroto and Motin proclaims no more corruption in the city, ever.' I'm my own grandmother making tortillas in a white breathless dawnlight, thinking, Which liberales, these, ours or theirs? and, Is this why they closed all the bars? and, Rain's coming like an old god hied out of the seawrack by the jungle's breast. And it comes to me, how readily I could turn smoke, press myself on the guitar's wide mouth. How I'd knot my scarf in the morning for a whole town of unsuspecting eyes. And you, my Plaster Saint, you'll still be deciding whether to cry 'Love' or 'Country' at the last as the tracers come sirening from the trees, as I twist the thumbscrews on the electric bed.