Yaira’s House

by Malia Levison

 

I float beneath the thudding of engorged bodies

scurrying across rotten beams. Resting momentarily,

giving us both a chance to breathe.

 

Outside my room the resident pack of dogs

pays their respects each night

by howling. The eldest, a German shepherd,

begins the chant.

 

I had a dream where I was falling

but instead of waking up before hitting the ground

my body plunged into the sidewalk

where I laid shattered and shelled.

 

The rats are screaming again,

bringing me back to flesh.

The residue of my dreams crawl into the skeleton

of my mattress. It is time to join the dogs on the porch.

 

Bruno finds my feet.

I know it is him because he smells of hay and cow shit.

His sandpaper bark cuts the stillness

leaving ripples in the dark.

He will die soon.

 

Yaira will bury him with chicken bones,

beneath the banana trees.

I will swear that I loved him

but if she asks me to raise my right hand

I will refuse on the grounds that it is

a vulnerable position for armpit tickles.

We will share stories between bites of mangos

returning to our rooms with flesh stuck between our teeth.