transpire

stalks of collapsed corn like
the carcasses of abandoned infantry lost en el conflicto.
white flags furious in the wind.
paper kites trapped by telephone lines,
butterfly wings torn on barbed wire.
¨sin agua, no vida.¨
but still the flowers grow
up through cracks in the cement and
turn their faces towards the passing light.
children run barefoot over glass shards
without breaking skin.
blind corners peer over shoulders
along the road where
buckets of white lilies yawn.

Cement Rain

Cities scare me. Not the people or the crime but the very essence of the city—its structures. Armies of cars that move faster than I can think; the buildings so tall they block the sky, sock you in, separate you from the rest of the world; the lights bright blinding us to stars just beyond; the advertisements’ abrasive toxic commands.

No city overwhelms me more than the one I grew up next to—Los Angeles. The heavy buzz drains me, and the exhaust chokes my lungs and turns my stomach. Without stars, without trees, a sailor lost at sea. A few days ago, I saw a stray coyote in downtown Hollywood at around 3 in the morning, looking bewildered and hungry. I felt so sorry for him. Then I realized we are just the same and will both find our way home.

San Salvador is a city like any other: huge and loud and fast and modern. There are only chain restaurants and international brands. I immediately don’t like it. I am out of place and out of breath. I seek solace in a small nursery, where potted plants hang from a barbed wire perimeter. Who would break in here? I wonder if the plants feel protected or trapped. Every other store is guarded by a stocky man with a large gun. The guns are mostly pointed upwards at the rain clouds, but they still make me nervous. One man has a long dagger in a black leather sheath with fringes on both sides.

The guns and knives don’t make me feel safe. They are a reminder that this is not my city and one of the few distinguishing characteristics I’ve seen. When we meet Carlos, our Project Coordinator, the first thing he tells us is he is upset. That’s so rare. Refreshing in a way, coming from a land of good and fine. Then he explains why. One of the women in the community was killed recently. She had been riding a bus when robbers had boarded it. They immediately killed the driver. They stole from each of the passengers. When they came to the woman, she refused. The little money she had was to pay the rent. For her store. She sold small things. She had so little. She could not give it up. Then she would have had nothing at all. So they took her life. She had three children. Though they are grown, she was still actively contributing to the center. She was a good person, Carlos said, and he was sorry.

I look past Carlos at the cars, at the people, at the guards, and I miss the lush green hills we’d rolled in through. The mist and dark clouds mingling like a cool, calm blanket. The pyramids of coconuts I had forgotten my love for. A gentle rain had begun to fall as we rode along. Cada dia, our driver told me. With the window open and the tropical wind in my face, I breathed deeply my favorite scent in the world…water on dirt. This is the smell of life. It’s not the same when rain falls on concrete. And think of the steep slippery slopes and mudluscious children tomorrow will bring, and I smile.