why i love Mountains

i have been in this dusty town for eight months. long enough to get going, i figure. there are mountains. i love mountains. for me they’re as impossible to ignore as cleavage. they sit behind the town. on top of one is a bowl like a volcano, and in the bowl are two tall trees. i can see them from far away. the mountains look close, but they’re far away some days. i can see no houses or roads on its sides and i don’t want there to be any. imagine! trees in a bowl on top of a green mountain! i wonder if it fills with water when it rains. maybe there is a pond there with mountain-borne fish. i look at it every day and it doesn't disappoint. in the morning low clouds drag across its face, stretching like the backside of a wave. when i'm coming home from work, the sun is flat, hitting it square, like a spank. it’s blue before the rain comes, and gray afterwards.

but my love for mountains is not unconditional. i realized this in the dry season. i had thought that nature was a sort of alternative to the city, and mountains were like nature’s palaces. looming above ours. but now that it is dry in the city, the palaces of nature are burning. the tops of mountains are the closest to the sun, the farthest from water, and the farthest you can get from life. it begins with the wind. it is a hot and dusty wind that tastes like smoke and pollen. it blows into town from the hills where the fires carve odd shapes. like an alien planet. then the yellow weeds push up through the faces of the hills that are black from the fires. they shimmer in the heat from the sun and disappear behind a haze of smoke that is dark and purple like rain. a hot kind of shade. 

i wouldn’t be surprised if all the animals came down from the mountains into town. it would be like Jumangi, but they would be more like refugees. lines of monkeys coming across the bridge into town. the other day i saw vultures gather around some dogs, scare off the dogs, then pick at the ribcage of a dog that the dogs had been eating. more dead dogs then. it’s a dull feeling of death winning the battle in the middle of the day.

i could have saved myself plenty of anguish by walking over and seeing what my special mountain was all about, or asking someone, but its scary. so i protected the image of the crater-top with the fish still swimming around, until i could no longer hold it inside my head. first i wanted to know its name. and then i was told it had no name. “What?” they replied. “Oh that,” they said. and hell if i didn’t find out that it was owned by some goddamned coffee plantation. i wish i’d never asked.

i was driving out of town the other day and i passed my special mountain. on its flanks there were well-established places with gates and barbed wire with guards that i would have to talk to, and charm to surpass, only to see what i no longer wanted to see. the top wasn't green, but yellow. the trees on top looked like desert palms in a terrible, drying wind. i don’t know what i had expected. just a dark and narrow trail leading to something unique and beautiful everyone else had missed. then i would see about that bowl and those two trees and the summit tidepool with the cloud fish, and so many other things. i still believe it's all there. there’s just no telling until you’ve been, and that's why i rarely go.

Half a Cow

when you haven’t got a trailer

the easiest way to move a cow 
down the road 
to sell

is to put its calf in the back of a pickup

and drive.

that cow will run through a city street

packed with noisy smoking red-eyed people

without batting an eye.

that cow will gallop over a rickety metal bridge

so long as it can see the calf.

you can go 20

and you won’t lose the thing.

the most difficult part 

is covering up the calf in a tarp 

once the sale is made.

you only have one shot at it

and it has to be quick.

because if the mother catches you,

you’ve sold the other man

half a cow

at full price.

The End of That

i was living with a beautiful girl.

she had been gone a week

and when she returned,

her scent and feel seemed to have been gone forever.

i had treated not seeing her very lightly.

now everything was just right

but i wanted more.

we got each other worked up

in front of the tv.

and then i walked her to my bedroom,

excused myself,

washed up in the bathroom,

and pushed the condom wrapper from the night before

deeper into the garbage.

by the time i got back to bed

i’d learned several things about her:

she had an explosive temper,

an eye for detail,

and a scent and feel that

i would never find again.

and that was the end of that.

Tuesday

Is a rose naked or does it have just one 
dress? Es un truco sucio

para mantenernos separados. They divide our bodies

by gender, our clothes

by gender, and even my wandering fingers

find themselves wrapped in rigid, formal clothing that everyone seems to like

but me. Pero

Adán y Eva

no estaban avergonzados.

Then God gave us the Word.

Y dicen

que este es la razón porque

no podemos mirar a un otro,

y no puedo verte, para siempre.

So, dressed as nicely as we can, we look at one another 
through little windows
and hope the blinds
never close.

Sunday

once outside a ballpark

a boy knocked me out cold.

i was very well drunk and

when i found my legs i staggered

forward and pleaded with the boy’s

father for some sort

of recompense.

it was a cheap shot,

but he was just a boy.

‘look at my goddamn lip!' i yelled.

i expected the father

to admonish his son

or offer an apology

but he didn’t even turn around.

he looked like a boxer's trainer,

bent over, rubbing the fighter's

biceps and shoulders,

quietly repeating some mantra

to prepare for the next round.

they had

forgotten about me.

there were fireworks 
above.

i stood

in the middle of all the strolling

people, tasting blood

and thinking of what to do.

i knew i could take the father.

his back was turned.

and the son would break

when he saw his father hit the sidewalk.

i thought about this,

and i still do,

but by the time

i made up my mind

i’d lost them on the train platform.

Wine Tasting

It was a night like a Tuesday night and the store was empty and full of glinting purple and yellow light.

"I'm not." Maggiano said.

"Yes you are." the man said. “It’s late and I appreciate it.”

"You shouldn’t. Believe me.”

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t mean to drive you away,” Maggiano said quickly. “Thank you for saying I'm kind. Normally I'm very hospitable. On most days I could give you the histories of the finest wines and the less fine wines and make you buy more wine and spend more money than you’d like to. Here try this one.”

“What’s this?”

“It’s a white from Chile.”

“Sounds good.” The man emptied the glass. “It’s good. My, that is good. It’s good and interesting.”

“Sometimes the people like it.”

“Any awards?”

“No.”

“What does that say there? I can’t read Spanish. ”

“I don’t read Spanish either, but I know this wine does not have any awards.”

“How much?”

“Fifteen dollars.”

“That’s not bad at all.”

“You like it then, and you would like a bottle?”

“Sure, why not?”

“There’s much better for the same price. And much more expensive too."

“May I try something else then. Maybe a few of those?”

“I'm afraid not,” Maggiano said. “Tonight I have no interest in explaining to you what you are tasting. And the ones I might have you try aren’t open.”

“What the hell. I’ll take two bottles of this.”

“You’re in a hurry.”

“Not particularly. Just doing a little shopping. I’m having company over tonight and I would like to have something to drink and to talk about. If you could tell me a little more about this Chilean, I would appreciate it.”

“Can you count?”

The man leaned forward.

“Yes, of course. What are you asking?”

“See, it says 2010. That means it’s three years old. Three years is not a very long time, but it's not very short.” The man was beginning to smile. “It's from Chile,” Maggiano said, “but you already know that. Don't you already know that? Don’t people know where things come from just by looking?"

The man looked at his watch.

"I suppose nothing is simple for you wine people.”

"Maybe they could be." Maggiano tipped the bottle toward the man’s glass. The clear yellow liquid spilled from the neck. "Drink that. I'll go fetch you a bottle. No. Two bottles." The man stood impatiently not drinking the wine. “Then you’ll be on your way.”

The day prior, Maggiano’s wine store had been robbed by two young men, neither of whom had any patience, and one of whom had held a gun at Maggiano’s head.

Savage Animals

The sun was up. He was awake in a shack in Honduras in the jungle staring at a children’s poster hung haphazardly on the wall. There was a spider, a scorpion, a crocodile, a jaguar, a cobra, a lion, a hawk, and a wolf. Above the illustrations it said Animales Salvajes. There were two wolves. It was the only one that had two. Two wolves with heads joined in a stream, one nuzzling the other with its nose. He decided he would point it out to her when she woke up. But then again it might seem to her that he was trying to be metaphorical.

She was laying on the floor on her belly, because she had malaria and she was hot. She’d said that the couch felt like a motel couch and he’d slept on the floor and been cold because maybe she would be cold later on. The way she’d curled up and sweat. Kept her bra on all night. Funny thing. Women that way. White and padded. Now it was soiled and beige. Cold sweat or warm? What kind of dreams are you? Maybe she was better. Wake her up to see. Oh but the leg was looking worse. She would see. It was malaria. Had to be. There had been the rain. Made good sense. They had to get out of there. He went over to the window.

In the tall grass outside there was dew and birds. Not hummingbirds, but small birds that landed nimbly on the grass. Never seen that before. Looking for the bugs with the dew-wings. Hiding until the sun dried them they were. She moved. Her arm was over her face. Ants marching in a line on the window frame. Nearly put his hand there. The bright feelers on the bright red ants. Always working. Follow this one. Oops lost him. That one now. Carrying something. So’s this one. Oops lost him too. Maybe he should wake her and say, “If we’re going to leave today, we should leave now.” It would be better, with how the sun would be hot later, and causing all their problems, to hike out at once. There were two towns. Totzal and Xitilicalpa. No. Zitili-calpa is how they say it. X’s from the Mayans. Pronounced like z’s they are. Xitilicalpa was four miles away, but smaller. Totzal was eight, but bigger. They could do the eight miles. Why risk it? Imagine finding no help in Xitilicalpa. Then the trip is 16 miles. What would he say then. He packed her bags and woke her with a smile.  

The green mountains lit behind the backside of the leaves, and the sun dropped behind the black tops of the ones beyond, and in some spots the grasses shimmered where light fell through. They were on the trail by the river.

“Damn. Oh, Damn,” she said.

“What?”

“Oh!”

“Is it happening again?"

“I think so. I can't stand."

“Don’t sit down. Don’t sit down. Oh, honey.”

“I need water.”

“You can’t. It’s not clean,” he said. “God. I shouldn’t have drank the water. That was a stupid thing for me to do.”

“It’s OK. You were thirsty.

“That was a stupid thing for me to do.”

“It's done. Come here and look at my leg.”

“OK, but I can hardly see.”

“Touch it.”

He put his hand down.

“We should keep walking.” He took several steps and stopped. “We’re halfway there. Don’t you want to see a doctor? Don’t sit down. I may need a doctor too.”

“I don’t think you need a doctor. And I’m not sick. I'm just tired and I hate these bugs."

“Can’t you stand up?”

“We’d be there already if we’d gone the other way.”

“What other way?”

“The smaller town. I don’t know the name of it.”

"Ziti...Xiticaca. It's from the Mayan."

"That one."

“Yes, but maybe they don’t have a doctor, so I thought we should come this way.”

“Maybe there’s nobody to see us where we’re going and maybe we’re not halfway there.”

“Maybe not, but don't lay down."

“We should float back.”

“Float? Back where?”

“Home. It would be quicker.”

“That isn’t a Montana stream, Honey. There are piranhas, snakes, crocodiles, and jaguars and bacteria and amoebas that eat your brain. And we would drown.”

“Still it would be quicker.”

They’d met at a cocktail-party-themed party at Montana State and he had been studying American History and he’d dressed as Woodrow Wilson, and when she approached him with a cigarette in a long cigarette holder and asked his name he said something about isolationism, and she said something about F. Scott Fitzgerald, and then they both got particularly drunk, their friends had said (and then all become friends) and then he kissed her full, red lips through her veil and his mustache got stuck, and she wore it the rest of the night, and when they went to bed together he took it off, and she asked where did he get that come from, and he said he’d been wondering the same, and she called him a bastard, and then she asked him his name and he put the mustache on and said F. Scott Fitzgerald.

Then that cool night in October when they’d sat together on the screened porch and found they could spend long periods of time together without alcohol. They watched the trail of ants surround the candy the children had come and received and dropped, and then later, when they were drunk, he’d stood above the line of ants, and said watch this, and she’d said not to, and he didn’t.

“Where are you?” she said.

He put his hand out.

“Can you see the water? I’m right in front of it.”

“Aren’t there animals?”

“Yes, but they aren’t so big as I said they were. Get in."

“And the bacteria and amoebas?”

“We’ll just wash off and get away from the bugs and freshen up and wake up a little. I really can’t stand the bugs. And neither can you.”

“I am feeling better. Look at my leg. I don’t want to look at my leg.”

“I’ll hold it above the water and you don’t look.”

“How does it feel.”

“It’s not so deep.”

“Is it cold?”

“It’s not so cold. It’s warm, but not in the bad way.”

“Oh, God. They’re at me again. I can’t stand it.”

“I can't stand it either. Come here."

“We're going to float back, aren't we?"

“Why do you keep saying that?"

She was on the bank.

"Because that's the only way we're staying together."

"Because of your leg."

"Right."

Then that time at Grand Tetons National Park she’d spat over a precipice and hit the wing of a hawk. They’d stood there a moment. Both let out a small laugh. It flew off toward a two-pronged peak above a river in a valley with wide white pools, straight blue channels, clots of pine and rocks and snow. A line of distant mountains higher with snow. Another range all white. All white in the distance. At the same time they started laughing very loud and could not stop. This was the story where she’d loogied a hawk.

“What a strange place to be,” she said suddenly and sharply into the leafy blackness of the banks of the river and it was true. The moving water black and gurgling.  The river ran white against a large rock in the middle of the river and pushed the current to the the right where there was a smooth and deep channel. He had been asleep and he spoke without thinking.

“After a minute we are going to the city of doctors.”

“My leg is better.“

”“Honey, it’s not good to have it in the water.”

“But it doesn’t hurt me anymore.”

“It’s better then. You’re feeling better.”

“Sure.”

“It isn’t so bad after all, is it?”

“No. And there’s no amoebas.”

“Listen, I wanted to tell you something.”

“Tell me.”

“There was this poster where we stayed last night. I don’t know if you saw it."

"Can we call it something so you don’t have to call it the place we stayed last night?”

He pulled her close and kissed her ear.

“Home.”

“I love your sense of irony. Home," she said. "Home. Home."

He coughed.

"Right, well there was this poster. Did you see it? It had a drawing of a lion, a crocodile, a jaguar, a bear, a snake, a wolf, and some other animals. But the picture of the wolf had two wolves.”

“What were they doing?”

“They were nuzzling each other in the stream. They loved each other. I could tell they loved each other because of the picture. I wanted to show you this morning.”

“You should have showed me, now I’ll never see it.”

“Can you picture it? It says Savage Animals at the top.”

“Yes I can picture it. Two wolves loving each other in a stream. They’re not savage at all no matter where they are because they’re together. That’s what you want to say.”

“Exactly.”

“They love each other forever and always.”

“Yes. It’s lovely and I’m so glad you think it is lovely too.”

“Picture something for me”

“Of course.”

“Picture us floating back where we came from.” He did.

“But not on our bellies,” he said.

“No, we’re not on our bellies. We’re just like this.”

Like that time he’d sat against the wall in the living room in their first apartment and she’d said they should try and read each others minds to pass the time until the exterminator came, and she’d gone into the kitchen and laid down on her belly, he’d imagined, and then he’d fallen asleep and had terrible dreams. She woke him up and in that moment he smelled her loveliness that was his, and she was so beautiful he pulled her down and held her and thought very precise things until he was sure what was real and what was not. Then he let her go and said, "We made the right decision."

She looked surprised.