IN CENTRAL AMERICA

Heidi Woolever

Beaten down by break bone fever, I've started calling the dog Bones. Inadvertently,
Bones receives five kicks a day, he needs a bath, there are trees called Flame in the forest, I dream incessantly, in the day I have trouble recalling parts of the past, even shrug my shoulders without meaning to, but I can think of the mystery of the stolen rooster and the basketball, what a thief, and the hammock swings its arc all day.

The globe is covered in different colored countries but by god poverty is about a strong force, like a fierce wind it changes your posture - narrow your eyes in the dust and of course you forget (if the wind is torrential) what it feels like in the calm. And it's still again but my muscles are a bit tighter, and we curse or thank but cannot forget the weather.

Doors are only closed when sleeping we're roaming through the premises, but I get detached, you play the hand you're dealt, some are congenial with what's there, others do not love this life, we all move through the seasons and god, I feel like nothing happens here and suddenly you find yourself with a history, one stranger and a circle of people you call friends and experiences come and are still coming, as nothing happens.

Nothing much that is, but moving closer, farther away, and how we live, and there's a cooling breeze slipping over sweat. I've come to love the wind, it moves thoughts forward, ends hours, begins another. Like a bat I wait for night.