I'm still not used to summers in July.
In Chile, it's mid-winter.
Juliomeans hauling in logs,
keeping the fire steady and
days and days of unrelenting rain.


Here, the creaking of cicadas,
the bell of an ice cream truck.
There the sound of Southern rain
tapping on a tin roof and
rushing from overflowing
gutters.


Once in July,
a swift, roaring windstorm
blew pieces of roof off our house,
snaping down wires and
cutting off lights.


My family
groped for leaks by candlelight,
tracing the path of every drop
to pots and pans we placed below.
Every bowl my mother owned
lay on the living room floor.


We listened to the water
plunking like pizzicato cellos.
My father shook his head and
laughed, lighting a long aged
Jamaican cigar.


Atardecer en Temuco

Temuco al alimón

al cruce de caminos