when the asphalt is more water
than stone. I know rain
more than I know language.
I know it in guayacan petals
& the overflowing drains & the
yellowing of novel pages.
We overflow; we dry up.
When it leaves us, we make do.
Find our own ways to cool down,
call it carnaval. We become
queens by throwing kisses,
shrivel up and wait for the return.
This is the bridge of the world.
I know you in butterflies &
golden frogs & empty rum bottles
& November drums & rain. You,
who fit in the smallest shell on
the Caribbean shore. You, in palm trees,
colonial balconies. You, stars red
and blue, archipelago and isthmus,
morning after a night storm:
dewdrop hangover.
Emilie Mendoza is a writer from Panama currently attending Harvard University. Her work has previously recognized by Eunoia Review, Polyphony Lit, and the Adroit Journal.
