Rivera Maya Poem by Mitzi Kesterson

Do you have these whispered conversations w/imaginary me
Like I do w/imaginary you?
Sleeping beneath juniper and yew trees-
Though it's ALL wrong-
On hammocks of twisted sea grass,
Braided by tan, male hands, smaller than mine.
Where it's hot in the desert
And COLD in the water
Fresh at the deep bottom of a circular cave?
How did the magic know
That the Rivera was just what
My older-than-cracked-bones self needed?