“They say there’s a place down in Mexico where a man can fly over the mountains and hills.” – Fleetwood Mac


With our hands intertwined we walked in the frosty night,
our feet crunching the left of tortilla leaves from autumn
and I remember you opened the door to Que Pasa
and my heart began to thaw, waters flowed from my skin,
seeped through the floor, and you told me
that there was a woman, whose specialty was cocktails that turned
into gold the moment they reached the throat, I took a bet and gaped at
you drinking until your heart was filled with mercury,
there beside me, you were beside yourself, but there she was,
the Lady I had been eyeing, with a vihuela on her waist, caroled next to me,
her eyes in mine, and only stopped when her string had broken.

I could not tell her that I had in-fact not understood a single word
she had chanted. That was when you held my hand
and said, “This is not a test, or a drill.” Your eyes glittered like pixie dust,
and I asked you if you had noticed that the Lady had not worn shoes. You
said that her music kept her feet warm and that just like Joseph and Mary,
Que Pasa was her own Bethlehem where she gives birth to entrancing music,
hailing the scores of journeys we would take, in search of something
like Bethlehem and nirvana. That night I watched the magic of alchemy
drive nature to favor disorder, so I proceeded to relay to you
the story of a man, who went on a personal pilgrimage in search of gold
and how he had dug all his life only to find skeletons
of those who had once sought like him.

I finally grew wings and took a sip of your poison,
witnessed the venom rush through my veins, symbolizing
a new beginning, unveiling my heart that was once an unwelcoming home.
That was the day I became a voyager. 9 was the perfect number,
and we still had 8 more days to go and, when the night was over,
we had turned into bird-like creatures who like the wisemen,
glared at the stars and followed them, only to land right back at Que Pasa,
where everything was happening,
the only difference now was that everyone remembered us.

You told me it was our home now, because home is where
our memory lingers in the minds of those who let us wander
as far as we so desire, but remember to keep their arms open
when we finally find our way back home,
and defrost our hearts with their love.

They become our Que Pasa at Las Posadas.











Photo by George Desipris from Pexels