San Pedro La Laguna, Guatemala
I came here for the silence.
Volcán San Pedro watching over the lake
like it might speak, but never does.
Most mornings, I boil coffee
strong enough to matter,
carry it to the balcony,
and wait for something
that never quite arrives.
The boats come in
full of things I don’t need.
Backpackers with crystals and quotes
ask if I’ve found myself.
I nod at the volcano.
They take it in,
like a detail they’ll forget.
I rent a place above a shop.
The woman downstairs sells
soft bread and cigarettes.
She tells me the rain is early this year.
The clouds circle the lake
I think they have forgotten why.
I tried to write once—
a book, a letter, a reason.
Now I sweep the tile porch,
count birds,
and read the ten pages
of a novel by david foster wallace
then close the book
At night, the dogs bark
at things I can’t see.
I bark back sometimes,
just to feel involved.
I sleep under a fan
that clicks in the quiet.
It isn’t peace:
It’s something flatter than that.
