Lisbet

Her dress flowed red, lips rouged with a

wiggling golden fish around her neck. A traditional dance,

led simply by a child and her untouched partner.

After, she begged for a photograph, to show how

big her dress could spread; she held a serious face,

perhaps knowing she would never leave this place.

She eagerly took my hand and led me around the yard,

saying the names of fruits and giggling as I tried to repeat.

For a moment I thought of staying, of making

Quebrada Honda my home.

Secluded in the mountains, making unbleached sugar with

a horse-powered wheel, her family took me as a friend

for the afternoon. With a broken understanding, I learned to

pound the hulls of dried coffee, using a giant mortal and pestle

I beat down to the bean. It was refreshing to see

the kindness of neighbors.

Antigua, Guatemala

The cobblestone streets jar my mind

in the retired American school bus, a Guadalupe-

encrusted boat with orange flecks peeking through.

With a hope to shake this day-old fever,

and a vision of a quaint, bustling center,

I drop my pack at El Viajero and move.

Sloughing my shivering limbs the three blocks in a

new direction,  I glimpse the elderly man on the corner,

always pawning his wares, the women in front of the yellow

and white church in distinct indigenous dress,

serving up plates of tacos and fresh fruit.

The faint sound of music stirs the park as service ends,

families pour out to enjoy the sunshine;

a peaceful Sunday in Antigua.