Wisdom
I am from the rainforest, from its wetlands.
All year long I live through rainy seasons.
My days are liquid ropes expanding
and nourishing fallen leaves full of unfamiliar insects.
With the ants I build labyrinths,
gather mushrooms and roots spreading themselves
into sandy microcosms.
The rains make swamps of the flatlands.
Day is quick and slow like a dispersing sun.
A refuge of logs, a water phantom, surrounds me.
On my way home, I walk on a path between two rivers.
A rowboat waits for me at makeshift ports.
A never-ending downpour runs through me.
Gravity makes clouds full of droplets fall on my body.
The water does not withhold itself from its many storms.
Even though I don’t have an umbrella, I miss the steady drizzle.
“Weather is the rain’s concern,” my mother says.
Saint Rose and her Wind
In August, one waits for a wind stripped of its power
without the excesses of lifting waves and untethering canoes.
Although the news forecasts unprecedented winds,
there is no sign of Saint Rose of Lima’s presence.
For some reason the lupunas’ canopies
are the first ones to hear her hoarse and agitated voice.
The winds in the tropics speak to the inhabitants
and summon stories of riverside dwellers in floating houses.
Many have seen roofs fly off cardboard homes
and have ridden the waves in their topa rafts to avoid sinking.
She is the chief of national police who comes and goes without a trace.
Where is the howling we have been expecting and dread?
Years ago, we heard her break branches, destroy plastic sheet roofs.
By the end of August, we expect her to pass calmly through the city.
It is probable the Saint of Lima’s legend
will prolong the mysteries of future hurricanes.
Translated by Yaccaira Salvatierra
