I am the birds and the flood

the key and the terrible roaring

I no longer want to explain myself or my work. This seems one major block to publishing something week after week—telling you all what I am writing about, what it means, how this dreamy tangle came to be in front of you and why it matters. I honestly don’t know.

I’m sifting the fragments of all my experiences for what I feel most needs to be said today, right now. That’s it. And I hold back and I delay and I fret, thinking unless I package each installation with a tidy bow and an easy to follow ten step process that it will remain obscure, a dream to be forgotten when you awaken. Because isn’t that what this life has become? A series of maneuvers to capture the attention of others? A selling and buying frenzy. I cannot and will not compete with all this blood in the water.

I spray myself down with bug dope over and over through the day to evade the attention of the mosquitos, grapple with the attention I cannot avoid being a tall blonde gringa in rural Ecuador. Of course I want to hide out and remain imperceptible. I am tired of being courageous. I grow weary of being always watched and never seen. Again the metronome of “then explain yourself with more precision” rises and I drown it out under the heat of a sunburn, the white whirring of the fan. I drink guayusa. I doom scroll.

I’ve written nearly 110 pages since I’ve been in Ecuador and you all have seen exactly 6 of them. How to show you the dreck? How I’ve been digging into mushy wounds that have gone gangrenous? All the parts of myself I’ve had to cut away and all the people I’ve encountered here who mirrored—fun-house style—parts of me that should have been shed and shaken off long ago. And the arsonists who lit wildfires in me which I am still unsure how to contain. I’m just rolling around in ash.

Instead, I give you little poems, not the squelchy unrestrained internal processing I am actually writing. It’s not tidy.

It scares me to share that writing far more than the poem I’m posting this week which is personal and definitely not tidy. My Spanish is not great, but it’s definitely improved in the time I’ve been here. I have even found myself sometimes speaking Spanish in my dreams. I offer this piece, written largely in my broken-ass Spanish with the help of a translator app and then translated back into English—I cannot be sure the Spanish is correct, but I tried.

I am the birds and the flood, the key and the terrible roaring

Let yourself be destroyed by this moment,
how the gold light 
reflecting off the sea 
falls over your hip 
like honey, how the cat 
watches you from the 
doorway, how the wind 
comes in through the roof 
bringing all this dust. 
Let the grit coat your wet skin. 

Let his sharp hips open you
—you the spondylus shell, him 
the little knife you didn't know 
you were looking for—such a 
gentle knife. 

Take it all in like when you said
"a storm is coming" and 
he didn’t believe you until 
he heard raindrops 
on the zinc above. 
Take the boiled egg 
he offers and peel 
back these broken 
layers of your heart.
Enjoy the heat in how 
he kisses you knowing 
he's only thinking 
of her.

Let this break you. 

Rub yourself against 
his body until you polish 
away all your dark patina 
and you are shining. 
In this—the mirror
of your body—perhaps 
he will see a reflection 
of himself that he 
can love again. 

We wait, entangled 
on the bare mattress, 
for a miracle. 

I became myself 
in front of you 
and you didn't 
turn away. 

Let's start there. 
This is more miraculous 
than you think.

Yo soy los pájaros y el diluvio, la llave y el terrible rugido

Déjate destruir por este momento,
cómo la luz dorada 
reflejada en el mar 
cae sobre tu cadera 
como miel, cómo el gato 
te mira desde la puerta, 
cómo el viento entra 
por el tejado trayendo 
todo este polvo. 
Deja que la arenilla cubra tu piel húmeda. 

Deja que sus caderas afiladas te abran
—tú la concha del espondilo, él 
el pequeño cuchillo que no sabías 
que buscabas—un cuchillo 
tan delicado. 

Tómalo todo como cuando dijiste
"se acerca una tormenta" y 
no te creyó hasta que 
oyó las gotas de lluvia 
sobre el zinc. 
Coge el huevo cocido 
que te ofrece y pela 
estas capas 
de tu corazón.
Disfruta de la calidez 
como te besa sabiendo 
que sólo piensa 
en ella.

Deja que esto te rompa. 

Frótate contra 
su cuerpo hasta pulir 
toda tu pátina oscura 
y brilles. 
En este—el espejo
de tu cuerpo—quizás 
verá un reflejo 
de sí mismo que 
pueda amar de nuevo. 

Esperamos, enredados 
en el colchón desnudo 
por un milagro. 

Me convertí en mí mismo 
frente a ti 
y tú no 
te apartaste. 

Empecemos por ahí. 
Esto es más milagroso 
de lo que crees.