In the relative silence of another Lima urban night,
I sit at my desk with my notes,
attempting to verbalize culture and its significance.
But the winds are beginning to thicken in my skull;
there’s a tornado building in my brain.
My sight blurs and my heart tenses as it accelerates,
in efforts to supress the building sentiment.
Every cell, every mitochondrion in my existence, strains to contain
the encumbrance of my husband’s diagnosis.
I crave for numbness,
for hackneyed dumbness,
so as not to question
so as not to interrogate, the shredded bits of ambiguity
this moment has allowed me.
Tonight, Lord, may your Grace bring me Hope