from the dock i look at the river with the tides going left and right. circling into shadows.
lines of waves. and one little blue boat rowed backwards and lifted high
makes its path to the other bank where huts of stick and palm leaves nestle
behind private yahts and vacation homes. where there is no school; where quiche is spoken;
where nobody in his family knows how to read.

a squinting old man, leathered by the sun rows low in the point while a boy of eight
with backpack still strapped sits in the widened front, which is the back, looks down
and around. this boy came seven months ago without knowing how to hold a pencil,
draw a straight line, with wide eyes saying i want to but i don't know your language,
which isn't mine, but it is what we speak. he still comes when there is no rain or wind,
when the blue boat is not needed to fish or go to town.

he still comes and eavesdrops. he is a silent presence over the shoulders of others.
the one standing out of line next to the child next to me.
i used to chide him for being:
lazy...and why aren't you in your seat working?
nosy...did juan invite you to hear this conversation?
a line cutter...did you ask permission to come to the front of the line?

now i see his curiousity and necessity to hear and hear again. now i wink and
gently point to his seat after explaining to saida how to subtract or alicia why it is gui
and not gi.

he reads with the f, the j, the g, the h, the ch, letters i have not presented to him, but
he knows because his brother is teaching him at the house; this, he tells me.
he has no brother. he lies, his mama tells me.

nevertheless, he just might pass to second grade.

months later: he secured math with an excellente and language with a muy bien. he will graduate and move on.

8 women

seasoning 50 pounds of meat
by candlelight. donated meat
of three kinds.

smell and look and feel and debate
if this slab is pork, this chunk beef,
this sliver goat.

place baskets upon bowls upon vats.
rat proofed.
until tomorrow: el dìa del niño.


30 de septiembre

a speck on the horizon

a wide river
a grey dusk
a small man
in thin canoe
rows
to become a big man
at home

no sè

no sé, no vuelvo a oakland, ni a california, ni a los estados. me voy rumbo al sur. en este momento mi corazoncito no se siente con tantas fuerzas, pero eso es mi sueño...quiero seguir viviendo fuera de los estados en un país latina americano, quiero estudiar, quiero trabajar con niños, jovenes, quiero encontrarme en la tierra. este fin de semana estoy en antigua para seguir mis investigaciones sobre argentina o chile, seguir la busqueda de mi voz en el silencio de la lluvia ligera, no como la lluvia del río donde vivo, donde corre por días y te encierres en tus pensamientos que ni atreven a salir de ti. pero aqui en estas montañas, con este frío, espero sentir algo que mi guiara. sé que "se hace camino al andar" pero quiero andar con mi espiritu enfrente y no solamente con mi cuerpo andando en el polvo seco del sol.

recibo correos de ex-alumnos y otros amigos preguntandome por mi regreso y me da tristessa a tener que explicar que estoy creando aun más espacio entre nosotros sin saber a donde voy, sin tener algo seguro menos una sensación que estoy haciendo algo que debí haber hecho hace años. y aunque me siento un poco vieja por estar andando asi, asi es. asi me encuentro.

that what makes us stronger...

i'm immortal, esther said with a long stare and a slight smirk as she sat still in the weight of her malaria. i don't claim such heights, but i did walk with longer strides on thursday after a rat scurried over my foot as i peed with a candle next to me. i ran out of the stall with my pants still around my ankles and watched the grey round ball hurry up the wall and across the boards to the other bathrooms, the other rooms. it is not the first rat i have seen, but this one touched me.

en la clinica

in the clinic again cleaning his wound, calling him doctor, naming him as one who must help in his healing. he is nine, in first grade, and he says to me: i am not a doctor.
and i tell him: but you could be. what do you want to be, do?
a pause
him: a man
me: but a man needs to work.
silence as i rub antibiotic cream on his foot.
him: with horses. i want to work with horses. and you no?
me: yes, yes. i would like to work with horses too.
i look at him. we smile. i grab a band-aide.
him: and buy a cow
me: a cow?
another pause
him: yes, my dad is going to buy a cow.

thunder in the classroom

the rains have come and the waters rise around the stilted houses. turtles swim between house and kitchen. i see three as i throw my chicken bones to the swamp.

i like the rain at night when i can sit on the porch with candle-light and write while snores and croaks, mating herons and evangelicals are all nulled by the pounding rain, unseen yet there.

during the day, the rain interrupts casual walks to and from classrooms. now we run and arrive as if stepping from the river to a puddled floor where seats are arranged around drips from a corrugated metal ceiling. in what seems like a trash can being pulleted we must talk lips to ears, or yell without being heard. it is inevitable: they must work individually and then pass one by one to read with me. i listen, point to correct and struggle to breath with all this water pushing me down.