Those sweltering nights in Masaya
without air conditioning.
The small room a cauldron.
Waking from the heat. Or
thinking we were waking.
Whole nights spent on the
threshold. “Are you awake,
dear?” “I don’t know.” “This
heat. I can’t bear it.” Outside,
the insects play their symphonies.
“Honey? Are you there?” Outside,
heat lightning. Skin rustling, the
throwing off. A kind of prayer.