Self-Portrait in a Tourist’s Snapshots, Aliscon Pelegrin

feather boa bold at the piano bar

bugging your waiter for the same old songs.

I’ve been there, at the fountain holding court

with a tambourine and a shot glass of limes.

Mira! My gringa foot inside the powwow circle.

Blur of red sequins, red carnival mask,

penciled beard smeared—can’t always tell

which devil I am, which baby doll,

what the glitter letters on umbrellas spell

when the divas line up in order of height.

At the second line parade, I’m one step

closer than you to the fanned out ostrich plumes

and orange, thrown down tuxedo jackets.

Do me a favor—right the plastic flowers

in the vase before you start

a charcoal rubbing of my people’s names and dates.

When you look down from the tour bus window

like a politician on a goodwill tour,

I’m drinking hose water.