On the north tip of Bahia Banderas there is a point with long crescent beaches called ***** de Mita, where villas loom behind massed manzanillas, where half-asleep guards with sleepy machine guns slump on plastic chairs under hibiscus beyond the driftwood that marks the high tide.
There, on a bed, in this cabana, where I know the pelicans, the names of the waves and the sound your feet make on the sand, when it's too hot beneath fluttering canvas to do more than stretch out, as if on the rack, staked under the sun and slathered with honey, eye-lids sewed open, awaiting the army of fire-ants.... except your feet are too perfect for me to be eaten by ants, toe-nails too pink, crazy sand blooms on your wet shoulder blades: O instead, I'll sit up and stare at your nose. I've seen it before on a totem pole in Chapultepec Park: inscrutable Aztec, cempazuchitl, I've been waiting for you to devour my heart.
Sigh. Anyways - a heat-induced reverie....working up to a spectacular cliche! Note: cempazuchitl : the marigold - iconic flower of the Day of the Dead, etc.