The endless rows of tiny shacks
ascend the hill into the dusk;
like silhouettes of water buffalo
plodding sunset trails
home from the rice paddies.
A little boy
sells gum for a piso.
(He is so young—where is
his mother?)
Tiny toes make little indents
in his blue flip-flops.
Dust rises from the street
and licks his ankles.
Somewhere, his older sister,
in a dress she has worn forever,
brushes her jet black hair …slowly…slowly…slowly
and thinks of nothing.
The smell of jasmine is everywhere.
The air, heavy and humid,
does not move.
Now she turns, goes out,
descends the trail.
Her sandals stir the dust
as she carefully negotiates
a tightrope of potholes.
Below, a jitney waits to
take her to the city.
Tonight she will dance.
Tonight, she will lay her dress
Besides her picture of Jesus
and sleep with a sailor.
For poetry and more, visit Mecella.