adam and eve’s summer home

European architecture teases the falling sun,

tattooed with graffiti. A concoction of Spanish

and English words, mixed together and sprayed

over the fences, doorways. Adam and Eve reach for

the elusive apple on the whitewashed wall as the sun

sets. Everything is now cast in shadow: crooked tree branches

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with forgotten leaves, cars settling into the street, the small

purple flowers that cast their bodies across

the cobblestones. This is the New York City del Sur,

filled with color and bodies. Come morning, men and women scrub

tile lawns, hosing down the scent of the city as I walk along

the sidewalk, dodging water, brooms, stray mutts,

thousands of people. Morning here smells like baking

bread, facturas—stuffed with dulce de leche,

glazed with sugar honey, pale powder.

Panaderias are opening, making my mouth water.

Just one bite. Sun hits my skin, makes me shiver

and glisten in the morning bustle.