another animal story

walking with elder on the right and elio on the left, we turn the sharp corner that heads to our classroom. i look behind to eye those who try to cut the corner. i look sharply, but inside i laugh knowing that i have become my father. i turn back around to see where i am walking and i see that which pushes me back and pulls out of me a low gutteral uuuugggggghhhhhh, not a girlish high piched eeeeeeeeewwwwwwwwwww. the students come running regardless of sidewalk and norms. they start forming a circle around this central american possum spread dead on its back. i can't decide if she looks electricuted or drowned because i can't keep my eyes off her little one balancing itself on her belly while sucking its last drops of milk. little life upon mother death.

the rain...

the rain has come and it keeps us in.
no children play marbles on clay forest floor.
no running from others toward balls.
no jumping from docks. no swimming in the turning river.
no child goes to work in the farm.
no teacher roams the path to rio frio.
we are all in our houses.
on the teachers' porch. four of us read. one sews.
another arched in the hammock stares with out seeing.
silenced by the rain, we rest.

es lo que hay...

me siento en las gradas de un templo con forma solamente en su base. miro de lejos las siete estelas de 18 conejo, un líder militar. recuerdo haber leído que los esqueletos de gente viviendo en los últimos días de su auge mostraron pruebas de malnutrición, enfermedades infecciosas y una vida más corta. es la misma historia: mucha gente, hay que sembrar en las colinas más arriba y muy inclinadas, deforestación, erosión, inundaciones, hambre.

me pregunto si fue el enfoque militar que los cegaron o fue la falta de experiencia en comprender los señales de una caída ecológica. el hambre y las enfermedades de los que no viven alrededor de la plaza principal, talvez los primeros señalas que algo falla en la infraestructura de una sociedad, no siempre llegan a los de las casas de piedra alrededor de patios. cuando el sufrimiento del desequilibrio llega a los protegidos por una jerarquía de servicios y obligaciones, por el toque de díos, cuando ellos sufren de malnutrición, enfermedades infecciosas y una vida más corta, muchas veces es demasiado tarde.

el aislamiento de los que mantienen el poder de organizar es un pecado, mata. la ambición para vivir de y por los recursos que vienen fuera del retorno de una, crea vehículos, necesidades, distrae. seguimos entre las construcciones caídas y rehechas de una civilización cuya historia yacía bajo de la reclamación de las hierbas, las ceibas, los madrones, los monos aulladores, los tapices, los jaguares. subimos al templo de las inscripciones y encontramos la paz de la vista. busco el cielo por nubes de lluvia y me doy cuenta de que nunca antes había querido escuchar tanto a los vientos del pasado. hay libros que descifren sus susurros y ráfagas. pero ¿quién los lee?

el mapa dice que allí abajo es el cementerio. no me hace falta ir. todo me parece una tumba donde las fantasmas emplumadas pasan preocupadas en traer agua del río, barrer las escalanitas, llevar flores a los altares, esculpir piedra en la sombra. miro y no estoy segura si veo el pasado o el futuro cuando mi amiga interrumpe mis pensamientos diciendo, es lo que hay, es lo que hay.

copàn ruinas, honduras,
may0 2008

un hilo marròn

el personaje principal y su paisano hablan de su tierra vieja, remota, pero no olvidada. oigo el tono suave de medio azul tintado con una tristeza amarilla que es la nostalgia. me pregunto si sería yo posible hablar así un día de mi tierra vieja pero no tan remota. llegaré más lejos de aquí y ¿las cuerdas entre yo y esa tierra se pondría más tensos? esas cuerdas... ¿imaginarios? cuerdas, no tengo. a lo mejor hilo marrón enterrado en el barro rojo, el río seco, al lado de los pirámides, la basílica, bajo el mango, el arbusto de café. un hilo sumergido hasta un río dulce que a veces pone salado con camarones. si supiera donde me queda amarrado...tal vez a mi dedo grande de pie izquierdo, a mi cadera como un lazo, a mi cabezo como un pañuelo de indio, lo jalarìa para ver si marean las aguas, si tiemblan las montañas, olas terrestiales, vibraciones arenosas…para ver el enlace que pretenden otros, y que ignoro en mi.

waiting, next to the pila

yesterday i stood in line waiting to wash my hands or brush my teeth or wash my dishes. whatever it was, i was waiting, next to the pila where we wash our clothes or clean fish, next to our shower where i always scrape my shin stepping out, next to our toilet stand where every third flush something breaks and we must take water from the pila to lower the water in the bowl. i was there, waiting for barbara to finish what she was doing, there below the criss cross of clothes line with wet and semi-wet clothes blocking vision, i looked up and out through the netting to the forest, the sun, a bird.

this will not always be. yet i am here.

still waters, candle light and cysts

i begin my day on the dock breathing with the still
waters and low clouds. i end my day transforming
a pair of pants to a skirt. i sew by candle light, as i
learn about the cysts in which amaebas wrap their
eggs, tough enough to not absorb the medicine i
take every 12 hours. my third treatment in eight
months.

without witness

"If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?"


the lancha veered looking for calmer waters, but the wind didn't rest and the white waves didn't soften. we were teachers and students returning to family and friends on a friday afternoon, when we saw her. she was probably in her late 40's or early 50's standing tall at the back guiding her low laying lancha. wood palets tied with a white cord weighed it down. hey don tocho! they let her drive the boat. why don't you guys teach me to drive like her? screamed paloma to the clown bellied lanchero through the motor and wind. we watched her back head down river as we continued up.

-you know you can stay here tonight, her friend reminded her. the river is choppy; you have a heavy load, and it is getting late. why don't you stay?
-i want to get home. i've been out all day purchasing the wood. i want to sleep in my own bed tonight, see my dogs, check up on mono. mono was the howling monkey she had discovered in the indigenous town behind her home. seeing it tied up in a cage, she offered a fare price and took it home to add to her collection of rescued animals. thanks for the offer, but it isn't that bad. if i leave know i should be home for dinner with chuck.
-be careful
-i will
with a kiss on the cheek and a hug they parted. the friend stayed on the dock watching the boat pull away and head toward the golfete. they waved one last time and then, the woman never looked back.

by 7:30 most teachers and students were eating at home in their different towns, but not all. we, the foriegn teachers, didn't have to travel far to find ourselves scattered on the cushions of the sundog cafe owned by other foreigners. by 7:30 we were on our second beer when the radio was turned up and we heard, ...anyone seen my wife? she should have arrived by now... the voice continued to describe the long lancha heavy with wood.

by 9:00 the owners of the cafe and the other sailors were on their cell phones sending out the alert to those who may not be near a radio.

no one really knows what happened. nobody witnessed the fall. the lancha was found half sunk with her body at river's bottom. she was a good swimmer. theories blame the water and wind that caused wood to fly to head.

arriving at his cafe the next day, the owner had to walk through a navy barricade that kept people away from the dock where her bloated body lay face up. now on land, no one could touch her or move her until the officials from puerto barrios came. for two hours her body cooked in the carribean sun and there was nothing her husband could do in this land that was never his.