a short holiday
the Pacific both rose and broke
near the foamy fringe on the black sand.
it both smacked and deafened
as i walked with my backpack and bare feet.
Mayan people in puddles
gamboling for the holiday.
on rows of boards they
served barracuda and plantains for breakfast.
the mosquito nets excluded
the bats that swallowed human blood
when they swallowed bugs
filled with human blood.
the proprietor’s weary eyes followed
the strange white man with artless blue eyes.
flummoxed with whether cabal hid
behind his expression made halcyon
by the mythical bird.
the dark man resigned the keys
to his castle to
the strange man with artless blue eyes
and commenced his return journey inland
after Guatemala’s national holiday.
reading Wilde with my toes
in the holes of a hammock.
swirling wildly with the
particles in the undertow.
the saltwater blinded and
i saw nobody for five days
except the young, brown girl
who made barracuda and plantains.
the waves clapped for my privacy
and an Asian from Sweden
walked through the rain and
held a Bic to my blankets.
we took an old, brown van with
open windows to Antigua
and went our separate ways.
and then for two days
i stayed hidden in a hotel room
near the airport in Guatemala City.
it was rainy without raining
and i ate forty-four Quetzal traditional dishes
in a hole in the wall.
my flight would flee in a quiescent dawn
when the windows were wet.
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish