And how you sat at the bar right
there. That spot that was your spot
with amapa flowers in bunches
freshly smashed and pink
cherry blossom umbrellas
semi transparent, negligee
or your thin skin. Lapacho, also, why not
because we were such wild ones?
even such would have
stopped for a moment, I remember
the underwater bump and bubble
more like a tinaco I can’t hear
what you’re doing I can’t see
what you are; open mouth
in bloom; the end of high season
is approaching and I feel feathered again
to be one of those who know a place
well enough to make statements
that don’t mean a thing but a shrug
the heat is coming.
it will send the tourists scuttering…
and the lottery, when will be
the first day of rain? it won’t be
the person with most time who wins.
Jaguar cobblestone and rushing river; a road
is something for wading, what else
instead I told a story like
it was here you hit your head
one time and not in dancing with me
but lighting a cigarette, your forehead
and the bridge of your nose
freshly smashed and the pink
spider veins on your face.
Rose Hunter is the author of [four paths] (Texture Press 2012), and to the river (Artistically Declined Press 2010). She is from Australia originally, lived in Canada (Toronto) for ten years, and now lives in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. She keeps a photo blog at rosesfotosdeldia.wordpress.com.