La Libertad

A fan turns,

stirs the heavy air

that hovers low,

crawling

listlessly about the room,

spewing it’s salty breath

onto everything.

Pulsating bongo rhythms

patterned with

Spanish chanting

seep under the closed door,

slip into the bones

of two bodies

sitting immobile

on a worn-out mattress.

A single light bulb

dangles illumination

dense, unfiltered.

A paperback

with broken spine

lies open

on the swirling tiles–

circa 1970.

The silhouette of a chicken

flaps awkwardly behind the

closed curtains.

This. Nothing else. 

- kc