Marynia Kolak
Marynia Kolak

El Zopilote

There were no beating drums, rounds of fire, ammunition spilt, paint on faces, no land of lawlessness provoking you to grow your hair wild and no braids of barbed wire—at the anarchist ecological farm there were no guns but there was a traditional clay oven for pizza baking (you could take a class from the Italian who ran the place) and there were hammocks for one dollar and jungle huts for three (or you could stay for months and learn to steward the land) and there were Japanese showers and rock gardens and composting toilets, milk jugs decorating trees and bottle caps pressed in mosaicked cement spiraling walls—

There were no lights but after the first five hours of night you learned to feel your way up the steep slope of the volcano, gripping the rocks hesitant and awkward in the beginning but more sure and strong with every subsequent climb—

And this was the land of the Sandanistas, of revolution—and I had hitched and bussed across this land of poets and movers with best friend at side, my belly not yet showing, and the word on the street was to keep on moving to make the most of every moment, the word on the street was surprised we did not come to proselytize and the word was warm and we were warm and in love with these mountains and hot arid summer lands—the word was catching old American words of caution like anesthetized fireflies and storing them in mason jars until the glow dimmed to nothing and we were finally able to appreciate the starry night in peace—and the word was good, and I felt more at home than I ever could have understood, sipping coffee from plastic tumbler and sucking the sour from star fruit under the morning’s pink swelling clouds—
                                          Exhaling,
Realizing I didn’t need the Northern dream if I had this—realizing that kid and me will never need it—watching the buds opening from the grafts on my limbs, expanding with every breath—my friend explores the island while I stay back, falling back for the first time, arms spread and chest barreling and eyes serene and waiting for the wind to blow from the spaces between tropical leaves to the spaces between my fingertips and the strands of hair coarsening with every movement—