I

the harshness of a place
its animals its arbitrary rules
its wind’s ability to carve you
the way its time takes your body
what it calls you what it does with your good name
who it leaves you with and without

I forgot my blanket and my sword and my drugs
out looking for a soft place to land, but
I’m out looking, nonetheless

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II

I’m buying back from thieves the gifts you bought for me
The American girls I met ask if I’m chasing your ghost
or just Doing My Own Thing. What kind of woman do they take me for?
(I have been calling myself a woman for some months now)

Stepping out into the catcalling streets, it ceases to matter
what I am above or that I am finally up off my knees. With my skin so fair
skin just like theirs, nobody can tell the American girls I met apart
from the American girl I am. Hot-breathed, hungry men ask us, “Hermanas?”

(I have been calling myself a woman for some months now)
(I’m a runner from and not towards; I do not have the legs for a chase)
I hope you like the necklace and Doing Your Own Thing

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III

The cab driver turns his meter off in Bogota and takes us on the scenic route to the bus station. He tells us about the girl who was raped, murdered, and skewered in the park downtown. He drives us past the slums, stacked high and forcing themselves upon the eyes of privilege. He drops us off at the terminal, tells us we’ll love Medellin, gives us his number and assures us that he has cousins there who would happily cook us dinner. I learn how to trust a man, despite both of our broken tongues, despite being in his country, being in his car, being small in his comparison, and being, as always, up for grabs.

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