Issue 4 Cover_final_web Poecology

Issue 4

 

 
 

Michelle Donahue

 

A Poem for Luis II

 
 
He said, ants bite and this vine
brings poison to touch. Now stop.
                Inhale.
We stood in the ruins of El
Mirador. I lost without him.

He tended the bar in a
Princeton shirt, less than
a dollar from Santa Elena.
He wanted to be a mechanic.
                Inhale.
In jungle humidity, almost
like breathing underwater,
the way moisture sticks within.

He kept chickens. The birds
eat then me
. He meant
money. His shirt ballooned
around his ribs.
                Inhale.
Don’t you smell? Monkeys.
Close, just from sight.

I gave him a book, the only
one I brought in Spanish.
                Inhale.
He was right. Howlers
perched, slow, unlike the
leathery spider monkeys
A whole family, or more.

When I left he thanked me
many times for my book.
                Inhale
those words, that precious
fantasy. I wish I had more.