West Mission Boulevard, Saturday 11:22 PM. The three sirens in little black dresses slide into the back seat;
Chestnut hair, dark eyes move too fast; a medium blond
A thin morena between them. Scent of woman fills the car.
—Yes, familiar voice. Who? When? Anne Sarah.
—Where are we going, ladies ? (What’ll we do when we get there?)
Chelsea, demanding eyes in mirror.
Cabin temp rises. A/C fans swell
Janice leans between the seats, whispers in my ear.
—To the border, she says, then turn right, 100 kilometers.
—Don’t worry, Chelsea says, we pay the toll.
—Ubers can’t cross over there, TJ taxis don’t like it.
Recitativo secco in Spanish like fireworks behind my head, conjuring spirits. Below the GPS periodic intones,
—Turn left one hundred miles, then right.
—Ensenada, they say that way. south…
—Turn left, then right.