Water and Poison

It is a nice house. You would call it a cabin. In Honduras there are just too many critters to keep out. So, naturally, a sort of indifference develops. A tarantula under the couch, curled up and dead. Looked like an upside-down crab. Alright. Centipede crawls out of the drain. It's OK. Stray dog and softball-sized frog get in fight. Frog sits in puddle. Dog afraid of water. Dog barks at frog, then runs into my house. That's not good. How do you say bad dog? Come.

Gecko on the wall scurries a few inches and stops. Sits in one spot for twenty minutes then continues. The reptilian brain. Could smash it, but why? They eat the bugs. But then what eats the geckos? Well, why does anything have to eat the geckos? Your problem with geckos, not mine.

You must kill all the ants though. Because they are smart as shit. They will destroy your home. They walked right through the front door and into my room the other day. I followed them. Found them dissembling a Chiquita banana sticker I’d left in some pants pocket in the hamper. Must have had some banana still on there. The next time I just put the pants on. They all bite at once. That was the first time I could say, "I have ants in my pants."

So I asked Carlos, my boss, a father of two, a pious and respected man in town who is considered endearing to everyone he encounters, "How do you get rid of ants?"  He said: “Find where they are living. Dump boiling water. Then put poison."

I have dumped boiling water. Put the poison. But you can't poison rain. And it has rained twice on my bed.

Hustling out of the rain up to your front door. Fumbling with the keys. Almost there. Click. Yes. Into the still dryness. The wooden coat rack and worn dining room table. Pass the kitchen, the wires, open the bedroom door. Rain on both sides of the window. Raining on the bed. The cell phone, laptop, power strip. The oscillating fan shaking his head, sputtering like a a baby. We’ve got to get you unplugged. We’ve got to get you all unplugged. You stand there a moment and watch because it's incredible. And then get a bucket.

But then again, I get it.

I was making tuna sandwiches last night with a neighbor. She has a son. Good mother. Young. Kid was crying when we were leaving, so we stayed. Making tuna sandwiches. Then she turns to me, which is when I realize I had been staring at her hands. 
“You like lime?” she asks. “Taste good?” Very pretty.
I say yes. It would taste good. 
"Bring one," she says.  I look around the kitchen. On top of the refrigerator. 
"You don't have any."
“The tree,” she says. Then I remember there's a lime tree out front. “Get big one.” 
And I go in the dark and pull at the loaded branches and find many limes as big as apples.