by Russell Karrick

Today was the first time I saw it rain in Santa Fe de Antioquia. I stood
barefoot on the grass, looking at the mango tree’s wet leaves. The same tree
whose branches I lowered yesterday as a gesture of peace while my wife
struggled to pick the last few hanging fruits. I saw her from the patio and
had the sudden hope we could share something more than the brooding
silence that’s made these last few days feel like months because, like the
midday heat, my wife’s heart is slow to forgive. Earlier, I walked to the
market to buy a pitaya for my three-year-old, so he could finally poop
without his face turning purple. On the way back to the house, I saw an
iguana swaying on the tip of a branch that would not break. It was as if no
amount of pressure could make it snap. The gods must have mistaken me for
someone who believes in signs. Until the branch did break, and the lucky
son-of-a-bitch fell into the neighbor’s plunge pool. Then, the lightning.

Russell Karrick is a poet and translator living mostly in Colombia. He has won translation awards from World Literature Today and Lunch Ticket. His poetry has appeared in The Offing, Bat City Review, Spoon River Poetry Review, Magma Poetry, Blue Earth Review, and Stone Canoe, among others.