Photo by Anitra Thorhaug

Courtyard Culture, San Miguel de Allende

Sometimes I think courtyards are fortified islands
guarded by granite fangs of inseminated-with-safety
gargoyles, which then makes me think of calm cloisters,
clean, well-lighted places, and sanctuaries where
we make the world go away so we can recover
and go out and fight the bastards again
before they take over the whole world.

Oases cursed sand and camel-nosed indoors.
Exteriors turned outside-in to interiors.
Wild juices that made our lives flower
were tamed by kindness when well-watered
in courtyards from Cordoba to San Miguel.

When I leave the clenched-fist cobblestones
n enter my gated, encrypted courtyard,
pinches of secrets leaven the recipes
baked for me and my family only.

Unless strangers know my padlock’s obsession,
which in Arabia opened to “Mafee,”
in Sicily it sounded like “Mafia,”
and now is three clicks, my wall stays inert
and on alert.  It may take time to pacify
the aggressive blue genes of human nature.