My father called it la boca del lobo.
The wolf’s mouth. The palm trees
lean closer to the earth, as if for warmth,
or maybe one last sharing of secrets.
White birds roost on mangroves,
transform into littered paper, a word
strangled between Y branches, hung
out to dry. Blackbirds flock in to land,
perch on the wires, roofs, taller
places where water can’t climb, a fake
sense of security—in the night they
chatter of plentiful food, idea nests . . . .
In a hut by the tourist beaches, an old
man sits, his legs crossed, with a finger
he traces this arching of light, ascending
into the horizon. The red he sees
is like his hands, his skin, whatever
the dusk takes, it doesn’t return. Black,
his soul rises skyward when he closes
his eyes. When stars glitter-dust the night
sky, he can hear the voices of the dead,
rasped in wind. If you strain to hear them,
they will speak of other dusks, other nights,
when the wolf opens its mouth, swallows
your life, a moment at a time—dissolving.
Originally Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 2.
