Mudlark No. 51 (2013)

In Proportion

Shouldn’t it be that where the past went is as insignificant
as third world countries appear on maps? But each element
sings. Or it growls or it screams. The buses are loaded

with caged jaguarundi beneath  blankets and children calling 
empandas, empanadas calientes in the aisles. I too staggered 
down those crowded passageways, and through many  

vivid places, where bougainvillea and cripples’ feet 
drug the streets. All moves were marked, 
by the border officials who slit fingers to test for fever, 

smearing blood on slides at every crossing
over a rusty bridge. From the guard’s tower, after a time—
it would be a blessing to look at last from a distance and find 

that what has been determines less. But the substance of later tries 
to make yourself is a lightly perfumed, translucent cream 
spread on the inflexible, boned structure of your sunburned face.

Boundaries and statements, like This is how it is now, are thin lines 
scratched over jungles, immense and evergreen.

Rose McLarney | Light Colored
Contents | Mudlark No. 51 (2013)