They say Peru is a land of gold.
It is not.
My shoes sink into mud
still fresh with yesterday’s rain,
or yesterday’s tears
I cannot tell which.
She pushes the wooden door open
and the house rushes out to meet me
grass, age, something close to decay.
It fills my lungs before I can refuse it.
I force a smile.
“How are you?”
But of course she does not answer
she does not understand.
The wrinkles at the edge of her face
deepen when she looks at me,
and her calloused hand finds my sleeve.
I nod and step inside.
Something in me turns off.
I begin to sleepwalk.
The family comes from the kitchen
with raw meat and vegetables in their hands.
The spoiled child gags.
The mask smiles.
The truth lives somewhere in between.
She demonstrates:
a rounded stone resting perfectly in her palm,
crushing greens into a dark paste
until ink seems to bloom from it.
She is skilled.
She gestures for me to try.
I lift the stone carefully.
Press down.
I do not understand the motion,
but she smiles anyway.
I wonder if that is her truth.
Green spreads across my bare hands.
Soft. Living.
I can smell it
so sharp I almost taste it.
She takes a piece of raw meat
and coats it in green.
The actress takes my place
and pretends not to fear.
When it is done,
she places it under hot stones to cook.
I wonder if I will get sick.
I eat it anyway
because she is still alive,
isn’t she?
And I am already here.
I do not remember the taste.
Only the car ride back.
My thumbs twiddle in my lap.
I notice my fingertips have been stained.
I rush to the sink.
Scrub until the skin protests.
Willing the lavender soap
to erase what it cannot reach.
And I hate how desperately afraid I am
That the greenness of the paste
Will sink into my nails.
