Gyroscope Review 16-4 - Page 25

COMING HOME PAT ANTHONY BY I’m crossing the Zócalo, alligator heels clicking across the cobblestones, blisters burning the backs of my feet, marbling my toes. I keep half an eye on where I’m going, the other on the deep, darkness hovering in doorways, the whispered Buenas noches, Señora. I don’t bother to correct them, but it’s as if they can see my swelling belly, the baby lurching with my uneven steps, the swing of my bag. I head for the cross street leading into the Colonia, the lights burning from the concrete framed windows in their faded pastels like women in worn out dresses, bare feet tucked into the extra folds. Tonight there will be nothing but empty air, faces with flaming cheeks from the hot liquor but no food, the rind of lemons still in the sink. I search for a piece of bread left over from the children’s breakfast. Ease off the shoes. Why, he asks me, after a day of playing fútbol, don’t you take the bus? I look at the socks thrown on the floor, gone grey with road dust and again, have no reply. Gyroscope Review 16-4 Page 1! 5