The Train to Chihuahua
Travis Blair

The train to Chihuahua shudders
a sleepy growl
stretches its imagination 
up a steep incline 
chugs 
one foot in front 
of the other as it 
waddles into a long ago 
time forgotten by all 
but B-movie producers and frizzy-
haired nature freaks

Wide-eyed children with noses 
pressed flat 
against windows look 
out at a magic world of singing 
cactus trees and winged 
coyotes and the marbled swirl 
of hard rock candy 
mountains

The smoker car is a den 
of hazed aroma 
Cohiba cigars clinched 
between piano-key teeth 
rosewood pipes filled with cherry 
blend puffed by men gazing 
at the painted mouths 
of women with long 
stemmed cigarette props

The diner is packed with sundry 
appetites fanned to flame by sweet 
pico de gallo, prickly pears 
pickled in embalming 
salsa, enchiladas dripping 
with thick molé spice
everything wrapped in a hot 
corn tortilla

Sleeper cars hide mischievous 
lovers, smooth skinned 
women who hold all 
the cards, tattooed arms 
against honey-butter flesh
mustached men stripped 
of all their power
through hours of Copper 
Canyon ecstasy controlled 
by the whims 
of giggling girls 

A red caboose at the rear 
of the train flung lightly 
over the narrow tracks
keeps a nervous 
eye on the melon gullies
waiting for Pancho 
villa's attack

Just A Caveperson
Mark Bonica

Note:  Estrus: The periodic state of sexual excitement in the female
of most mammals, excluding humans, that immediately precedes ovulation and 
during which the female is most receptive to mating; heat.

*

Just A Caveperson

Somewhere along the way
homo erectus lost 
her estrus
and had to look for rhythms 
beyond
the ache in her groin.

But anthropologists barely note
it's taken merely 250,000 years
(give or take 25)
to evolve
7-11s across the street
where she can gather
bangles like
Slurpies and Marlboros,
bottled Budweiser,
and Trojans (perhaps).

Or Ben and Jerry's
Chocolate Fudge Brownie,
Hostess Cupcakes,
and Midol
in case she forgets
the course of the moon
in the daylight hours.

Making The Sauce
Mark Bonica

It begins with virgin olive oil
squeezed from pregnant fruits -
enough to almost cover the bottom of the pan.

Crushed garlic in tiny piles
sizzle.
Just before the brown,
cans of chopped tomatoes, paste, and sauce.

Oregano
basil
salt
pepper
not measured in spoons and cups
but in shakes of fluttering green, black, and white.
Dashes of red wine -
a little more than a sip.
A palm full of rosemary
rubbed rough and firm
between clasped hands.
Blessing it all with three bay leaves:
no more, and no less.

The sauce heaves and burbles
in expectation
as the meatballs are rolled from
the frying pan.
They sink into the joyful mire,
slopping and popping beneath the cover-
wooden spoon balanced along the rim.

The air is heavy with history
and the spatter on the white range
connects us all.