Friday and the Year that Followed
Ambato, Ecuador, 1949
We never saw him before that Friday.
I was ten when the hollowed man
came to our house. He was tall,
dark-skinned, but not like los indígenas,
who sold crafts on the street,
washed clothes in the withering river.
Mamá eased against the wood door, eager
to make him go. His shadow turned,
looked at me. He stared past her as if he entered.
I felt the man everywhere: he creeped
up the leg of the kitchen table,
stood in corners, and brushed past us
light as breath we blew on hot soup.
My tingling skin, hairs on my neck told me
this year would hold my eyes open. Mamá kissed
my forehead, told me to pray,
For the man with no blood came for you.
Sunrays faded, became slivers.
The mountains and town grew cold as rings
left on the table from the soup.
When everyone went to bed,
all the lights snuffed, creaking floors halted,
and I knew the tall man was there.
He walked through rooms, eating sleep
from my body, and touched our belongings,
like the other ghosts lost in Ambato.
