Lake Atitlan, and: Election Day, Chiapas, and: Day of the Dead, and: Chalchuapa, and: Somewhere In Mexico, and: Brazil, and: Little Portugal

Lake Atitlán

The guidebook said it was beautiful -
two volcanoes loomed over the lake,
the smaller one not quite ready
to erupt, coughing like a teenager
smoking her first joint.

And there were fewer tourists,
since the soldiers opened fire
on the market, killing an American
and hundreds of peasants, splattering
blood and vegetables in the square.

The lake was not for swimming,
but you could sway on a hammock,
sip coconut milk by the shore
or spoon avocado from its rind -
you could buy whatever you chose.

You wore a long skirt and no shoes,
dived so easily off the rocks
he thought you were native, greeted
you in a language neither of you knew.
You laughed because you'd seen him

in the market, haggling for a melon.
He pulled out the fruit, promised
not to fight for it, said he was tired
of fighting, said he'd like to share
with you, please take some.

That night he unlatched the door
to your room. You were sleeping
on a straw mat that scratched.
He was not gentle either, grinding
sand in your mouth and eyes.

Which is how you learned: roosters
pecking at corn husks, rain
through the bamboo roof, mark
of straw on your back, in a place
where nothing hurt enough.

Election Day, Chiapas

Outside San Cristóbol before the election,
we stopped at the last checkpoint. A man
sauntered on board the bus, toting a heavy
gun. He grabbed our papers, thumbed
through mine to see where I'd been, said
I was far from home for an American.

That first night I roomed with a Canadian
who was reporting on the election.
You can be my interpreter, he said,
flashing his press pass. A polite man,
he asked, May I? before climbing into bed.
Our cots creaked over the din of the TV.

In town an anchorman for national TV
thrust a microphone at an Indian
woman. She knelt before him on a bed
of pine needles, predicting the election.
I watched them until the anchorman
questioned me. I'm not with anyone, I said.

It is dangerous to walk alone, he said.
He pulled me toward him, his breath heavy,
and I tripped on his feet. Then the anchorman
lifted me off the ground and danced Mexican:
my body his. I asked about the election.
I like your lips, he replied, moving to the bed.

The next day I awoke in his bed.
I would like to see you again, he said.
But it was the morning of the election.
He rushed into the street with his TV
crew. They filmed a group of Chiapan
farmers who traveled all day, a woman

grabbing at ballots, a camouflaged man
poised in the crowd. I did not go to bed
that night: I recalled the Canadian
man alone in his room, and what he'd said
about interpreting; I thought of the TV
man who would leave after the election.

As I gathered my bags after the election,
the Canadian man sat in front of the TV,
watching me instead. I've been robbed, he said.

Day of the Dead

1.

Even my friends thought you ugly:
small and pockmarked,
hands deep in your pockets.
Yours didn't know about me.

Rubbing against me on the floor
of a classroom, splinters
in my back, you closed your zipper
when wind knocked the door.

You whispered about plans,
and we made private vows;
I would forget and talk too loud
because I was American.

2.

The coast wasn't what I'd hoped:
the air thick with swarming
insects, the water warm
as tears, your hands groping.

In your pocket plastic crinkled,
but it was too hot to touch.
Sometimes you didn't say much
after the first few drinks.

We must have held each other
sleeping on the bus. [End Page...