Photo By: Ryan Hechler
The Fever
And you shake,
Till your jaw locks and your teeth shatter,
Till your eyes wince in pain and confusion,
And you shake,
And you shake,
Till the cold of the fever swallows you whole,
Till your body writhes under the blankets to find every inch of warmth,
And the only noise you hear is the tap of the bed,
The violent tap tap tap of the bed against the whitewashed wall,
And you shake,
Till your bones rattle in your body,
Like the decayed hand of a skeleton had run its finger along your spine,
And you cry out between seething breaths through clinched teeth,
And someone answers,
And you shake,
And they see your pain,
And they try to help,
Tears scar your face, you tell them to leave.
And they don’t listen,
And you shake,
Till you feel the weight of another blanket,
Till you feel a mothers hands tucking you in,
And the same hands on your shoulder,
And a sincere voice telling you it will be ok,
And for that second,
For that utopian moment,
Your fever breaks,
And your spine calms,
And your jaw lets go of your teeth,
And your body lets go of the tension,
And the bed settles.
Photo By: Ryan Hechler
The Bus Window
On the third day
In Pisaq,
Outside the bus window,
A young woman with dreadlocks sat in a doorway making necklaces from beads and hemp and shells and stones. There a man with a goatee and dreadlocks in a black, green, yellow, and red tam talking to her sipping a beer. She was quiet but smiled out of the corner of her mouth. The bus driver started the bus and a cloud of exhaust blew over the two. The man with the tam waved his beer around and cursed the bus driver. Little kids came up to the bus window with puppies in their arms. Una foto they said.
On the fifth day,
In Ollantaytambo,
Outside the bus window,
Stood a group of porters waiting to work the Inca trail. Leather straps bound their coarse feet. Their calves were swollen. One man looked like he had worms in his calves. They stood in silence, waiting to be examined like mules or donkeys or some sort of work animal. Most of them were missing teeth. Some of them were old. When the guide picked them they left in silence, their head usually hanging low.
On the sixth day
In Cusco,
Outside the bus window,
There sat a pregnant dog on the corner of a busy avenue and a man with overalls on a bicycle stopped to feed it bread crust. Down the street a group of men lined up to drink chicha from an old woman behind a cart. She gave them a glass and filled it up and they stood on the sidewalk drinking the purple drink. When they finished they gave her back the glass.
On the twentieth day,
In Huacachina,
Outside the bus window.
There was an oasis. A group of tourists drove by in a dune buggy. Some of them had safari hats and cameras with bazooka lenses resting on khaki vests. They were probably British. The buggy drove up a dune and disappeared over the ridge. A man with a
charango sat by the water, waiting for a group of people to play for. He tuned his instrument.
On the twenty-fourth day,
In Nazca,
Outside the bus window.
A man rode a motorcycle with a yellow cart attached to the back of it. It looked like a giant yellow tricycle. His figure was silhouetted against the infinite grey of the Peruvian desert. When he drove by, his figure crouched against the handlebars. His position was one of intensity. Down the street there was a hotel. A child stood against the gate. His head rest against the bars and his hands held him up. He looked like a convict behind bars.
On the last day,
In Lima,
Outside the bus window,Stood a group of school children in matching green jumpsuits. Some of the boys chased pigeons in the plaza and the girls watched and giggled. A group of tourists approached and they ran up to them and practiced their English. They said hello, and how are you, and where are you from? Then they got a picture with the tourists and laughed when they saw the image on the digital display. A father watched her daughter ride a red tricycle.
And you shake,
Till your jaw locks and your teeth shatter,
Till your eyes wince in pain and confusion,
And you shake,
And you shake,
Till the cold of the fever swallows you whole,
Till your body writhes under the blankets to find every inch of warmth,
And the only noise you hear is the tap of the bed,
The violent tap tap tap of the bed against the whitewashed wall,
And you shake,
Till your bones rattle in your body,
Like the decayed hand of a skeleton had run its finger along your spine,
And you cry out between seething breaths through clinched teeth,
And someone answers,
And you shake,
And they see your pain,
And they try to help,
Tears scar your face, you tell them to leave.
And they don’t listen,
And you shake,
Till you feel the weight of another blanket,
Till you feel a mothers hands tucking you in,
And the same hands on your shoulder,
And a sincere voice telling you it will be ok,
And for that second,
For that utopian moment,
Your fever breaks,
And your spine calms,
And your jaw lets go of your teeth,
And your body lets go of the tension,
And the bed settles.
Photo By: Ryan Hechler
The Bus Window
On the third day
In Pisaq,
Outside the bus window,
A young woman with dreadlocks sat in a doorway making necklaces from beads and hemp and shells and stones. There a man with a goatee and dreadlocks in a black, green, yellow, and red tam talking to her sipping a beer. She was quiet but smiled out of the corner of her mouth. The bus driver started the bus and a cloud of exhaust blew over the two. The man with the tam waved his beer around and cursed the bus driver. Little kids came up to the bus window with puppies in their arms. Una foto they said.
On the fifth day,
In Ollantaytambo,
Outside the bus window,
Stood a group of porters waiting to work the Inca trail. Leather straps bound their coarse feet. Their calves were swollen. One man looked like he had worms in his calves. They stood in silence, waiting to be examined like mules or donkeys or some sort of work animal. Most of them were missing teeth. Some of them were old. When the guide picked them they left in silence, their head usually hanging low.
On the sixth day
In Cusco,
Outside the bus window,
There sat a pregnant dog on the corner of a busy avenue and a man with overalls on a bicycle stopped to feed it bread crust. Down the street a group of men lined up to drink chicha from an old woman behind a cart. She gave them a glass and filled it up and they stood on the sidewalk drinking the purple drink. When they finished they gave her back the glass.
On the twentieth day,
In Huacachina,
Outside the bus window.
There was an oasis. A group of tourists drove by in a dune buggy. Some of them had safari hats and cameras with bazooka lenses resting on khaki vests. They were probably British. The buggy drove up a dune and disappeared over the ridge. A man with a
charango sat by the water, waiting for a group of people to play for. He tuned his instrument.
On the twenty-fourth day,
In Nazca,
Outside the bus window.
A man rode a motorcycle with a yellow cart attached to the back of it. It looked like a giant yellow tricycle. His figure was silhouetted against the infinite grey of the Peruvian desert. When he drove by, his figure crouched against the handlebars. His position was one of intensity. Down the street there was a hotel. A child stood against the gate. His head rest against the bars and his hands held him up. He looked like a convict behind bars.
On the last day,
In Lima,
Outside the bus window,Stood a group of school children in matching green jumpsuits. Some of the boys chased pigeons in the plaza and the girls watched and giggled. A group of tourists approached and they ran up to them and practiced their English. They said hello, and how are you, and where are you from? Then they got a picture with the tourists and laughed when they saw the image on the digital display. A father watched her daughter ride a red tricycle.
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