Nicaragua
It’s all about water here, but I can’t drink it,
not even if it’s burned over the stove.
Rain burns too, and feels like gel,
slicking down my hair, kissing the humidity.
Mom wakes us up at six in the morning to shower
because the water is turned off at nine.
Gasoline strips my nose on the way to La Piloto,
another motociclista, hit.
I remember that gloomy day at the ocean.
Chlorine-fed pools, monkey-filled waters.
Managua, Nicaragua, agua, agua,
I remember the white-smeared stain
on the sidewalk that looked like waves.
The orange veins in your eyes as you held back
tears, some other form of salt. The small shake
in your hand when you raised your cigarette.
You were scared cold because I looked at you
and laughed. You didn’t like me,
winning. Nothing chases me away.
Not the lagoons filled with freshwater
sharks, the bull spiders crawling
in my uncle’s finca, the mosquitoes.
The nights aren’t cold when the sun still burns
in the puddles. Winds blowing it your way.
Tricia Lopez was born and raised in Los Angeles, CA. She is the former Editor-in-Chief of MORIA Literary Magazine and is currently a Grant Writing Intern for Sundress Publications. She has had poems, stories, and author interviews published in Cultural Weekly and Athena. Tricia will graduate with a degree in Professional Writing from Woodbury University in December. You can find her on Instagram @trvcvv.l and on Twitter @trvcvvl.
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