Shouldn’t it be that where the past went is as insignificant as third world countries appear on maps? But each element sings. Or it growls or it screams. The buses are loaded with caged jaguarundi beneath blankets and children calling empandas, empanadas calientes in the aisles. I too staggered down those crowded passageways, and through many vivid places, where bougainvillea and cripples’ feet drug the streets. All moves were marked, by the border officials who slit fingers to test for fever, smearing blood on slides at every crossing over a rusty bridge. From the guard’s tower, after a time— it would be a blessing to look at last from a distance and find that what has been determines less. But the substance of later tries to make yourself is a lightly perfumed, translucent cream spread on the inflexible, boned structure of your sunburned face. Boundaries and statements, like This is how it is now, are thin lines scratched over jungles, immense and evergreen.
Rose McLarney | Light Colored Contents | Mudlark No. 51 (2013)