Getting Out

I remember all the rooms
where we stayed
in Mexico,
but I don’t remember
in any of them.
They were just a place
to leave our things.
In Oaxaca, with the tall doors and thin walls,
I fought a fever on thin sheets,
but still made it to the market
and a show in a crumbling theater.
In Taxco, we had a courtyard on the roof,
just outside of our room with high ceilings
and no glass panes on the high windows.
We got pizza and beer that first night
while the town erupted with a festival in the streets
for El Dia de la Madre.
And in the hostel in Mexico City,
two sets of bunk beds crammed in the corners
of a room at the end of the hall
and you tried to teach me to Salsa
on the dirty linoleum floor.
It is strange to say we stayed in those rooms,
in those places so far from our cities and our lives.
The things we found could never have been
seen in those rooms.
We had to open the tall doors
and walk the narrow, crooked streets.

~ Megan M. Codera

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