a compulsory ocean is worse than a forbidden well

I was only home for three days before my body purged itself of the entire trip. I threw up Antigua, San Pedro, Monte Ricco, Guatemala City. I threw up frijoles, maize, mango, huevos. I threw up the chicken bus, the mercado, the slum. I threw up Astrid, Margarita, Erick, Eddy, Juan Carlos, Irma, Pablo, Lupita. I threw up the damp rainy season, the swirl of clouds above a volcano, the entire Spanish language. When I was empty of everything possible, I stood over the clean white toilet and shook and cried and spat.

When the needle goes into your arm to probe what is wrong, it is Manuel de Jesus who is entering your veins. You watch this slim, shining thing become a part of you, but you know that in the end you will be left with a red-purple bruise on the soft flesh of your inner elbow. In the end you will have only lost your own blood, and you will have lost him as well. You will have lost everything but the questions: Is he dealing himself a hand of cards at this moment in time? Is he being beaten in the rotting alleyways of the slums? Has he eaten today?

At home, the carpet still feels strange on my feet. I take a dose of Phenergan and try to sleep away all of the problems. Maybe when I wake up I won't remember anymore. My body is empty, in one sense, yet so full that I cannot understand how to live anymore.

posted by Anonymous @ 4:06 PM