The moon rises over the twisting spirals
and minarets of the old gods.
It is the quiet solace of their
ancient sanctuaries that call me
from my hotel room to the streets below.
The warm tropical heat is like
stepping into a blast furnace
after the cool air conditioned climate
of the hotel, I can smell salt
from the sea just a mile distant.
A truck rumbles by, spraying me
with cold water from the evening’s rain.
Up and down the avenue,
hard muscled men with olive skin
gather on the stoops of tenements,
listening to loud, lively rap music
and chattering jovially in their
exotic, alien language. But I’m
the foreigner here, an intruder
in their world. I pass by silently,
a ghost tourist, keeping my eye
on the pavement at my feet.
There is a hint of agitation in the air,
a barely restrained sense of menace
in their posture and voices,
as if at any second they could explode
in a fury of fists and violence.
But they pay me no mind
and I soon pass by their neighborhood
into a narrow row of shops
and bars, leaking light
from open doors and plate windows.
An old woman with two snaggled teeth
and a scarf wrapped around her head
offers to tell my future
for ten dollars American.
But I already know my future.
It is behind me in the shadows
left by my passing.
My feet come to a stop on the stairs
of a looming, majestic cathedral.
The stained glass depicts St. Michael
brandishing a flaming sword.
I reach out and grasp the ornate handle
of a huge oak door.
But the door refuses to open.
Heaven has denied me entrance.
The moon drifts behind a cloud
darkening the street around me.
I can travel no further.
Published in Ship of Fools, Fall/Winter 2010
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