Like a relative on my husband's side, the terror of birthing a child year after year; going down the alphabet to name each one until she stopped at M. Debt collectors who came in person, knocking on the door before 8 AM. The hiking trail where movies were filmed, where women and girls were taken—cheaper than a motel. That manner of talk, all barb and innuendo: when you wash your clothes, some things might not come out, even with bleach. Lines of the fervent at church, waiting to kiss and leave their spittle on the plaster foot of a saint. Mildewed ceilings to scour throughout the long monsoon. Shaking my head and mouthing I'm fine to the parking lot security guard who pokes her head in the car window where I sit sometimes, just crying. The lab window in the hospital annex, where I'd bring little bottles of stool samples collected from a child yet again afflicted with diarrhea. Washing strawberries in warm water to make them possibly more safe but impossibly mushy to eat. Coming home Friday nights after a six hour bus ride from the city, picking up scattered toys and shoes as soon as I walk in the door. After the fabulous fireworks, smoke and garbage all over the streets.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
