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Sarapiquí

Emily Van Kley | Poetry

Crabs emerged from the beach
at night, blue in aggregate.

            Bats danced over our beds like ash
            over fire.

            When I cheered, the kingfisher
            startled, dropped its dinner.

                        A certain amount of discomfort
                        was to be expected.

I’m suggesting we deserved
the tributary’s clouds of mosquitos,

            the cayman in the shallows
            with its sinuous eye.

                        I grew up hating tourists.
                        I have always been a tourist.

The glass-winged butterfly
drinks poison to make itself bitter.

            The basilisk lizard runs over water,
            picking up skirts.

                        Even water can be fooled
                        by a very holy name.