Explosions, Gunshots
A poem by Micah Boswell · peru · memoir
Explosions, gunshots— the lullabies of my Peruvian dusk, louder than crickets, brighter than lightning bugs trapped in jars I never owned.
Dead bodies sprawled like lost kites, Army trucks like slow, rusted dinosaurs. These were my caution signs, my teenage days whispered through cracked transistor radios.
Wild dunes and beaches: our godless cathedrals of play. Sand was currency, broken shells were shivs, and the tide took our secrets without apology.
Jesus, his beard neat and sad, stood beside terrorism on the TV, both equally distant, both equally spoken of with the reverence reserved for El Niño or El Comandante.
Prep school uniforms, Gray and white nooses in summer, Deep slums with love and guinea pigs and boys who ran faster than fear. Those were my coordinates. My moral compass spun.