Hurricane
in the Yucatan
August 2007
What
more could the wind have taken—
they
had so little; as if sheaths
of
corrugated tin could hold back
oceans—coquina
floors crackling,
mamoncillos
and oranges midair
like
wild, pygmy moons.
In
the morning dark-eyed children
find
starfish where the shrines of saints
had
been. Family gardens ravaged,
except
for yucca, and onions
clinging
in slippery petals of skin.
Rice
pots emptied of everything but rain.
There
had been no electricity to begin with;
they
wouldn’t miss it now.
The
blanched buildings of the village,
pink
against the horizon. Dawn
already
in puddles
silvered
as shards of mirror.
Down
the road at the bakery,
confections
were being given away
before
they melted
or
mold set in. Buttercream
intricacies
with bright scalloped rims
carried
between neighbors’ hands
and
the uncertainty
of
daylight— piped rosettes
still
jewelling the placid walls
of
sugar paste— every surface
whole,
pearled and gleaming.
