Green In Mexico
In Mexico the jungle seemed as wet
and heavy as the sea, well almost.
A big reptile stared at me with alert
boredom. It had last been alarmed
in 1543, when a mad conquistador
had loaned it all that armor. Little
green lizards writhed underfoot.
I tried not to squash them. Birds
screamed. Trees bent under the
heavy body of humidity. I perspired
so much I started thinking about
how much human salt lay in that
soil. I was going to ask the man
in green about this notion. He
wasn't sweating. He carried
an automatic weapon. His
mustache was as black as
the gun-barrel. This Federale
didn't have to order me to
keep quiet. The jungle had
instructed me. I went into
the hut and slept with my
passport. Green waves
rolled over fitful dreams.
Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom
