He was too sauve, sophisticated for this world,
his humor mixed with his mythography,
the light of Mexico in his dark eyes
that loved so many women, knew tragic
hours attending the graves of his children,
observing the burial of the West . . .
I was Cienfuegos, journalist, reading
his novel of the region of transparent air.
I was dying with the revolution,
Artemio Cruz, I was C. Wright Mills
to whom he dedicated his first masterwork.
I was the Spain that ruined Mexico,
escorting its people up the steps made
for small feet, slaying those who would not tell
where the sun ended, rainbow of the gold
of Terra Nostra. I was Ambrose Bierce
getting lost so he would never be found.
I was the man who loved beauty so much
he pursued women as though they were myths,
Diana say. I was Laura Diaz,
whose life comprised the years of Carlos Fuentes.
I was always his son, I the farmboy
who came to the largest city on earth
with nothing but a vault of memory
I filled each day and recorded each night.
I knew no Spanish, barely knew English,
I was closer to death where I was born.
(16 May; posted 24 May 2012)