Ecuador Cries
Strumming his armadillo-shell guitar
he ululates a lament. His daughter
wrestles with a ‘poncho as cover’
restless as the guinea pigs corralled
in a corner of the kitchen.
He is with waterfalls, rainforests,
volcanic peaks which imprint like a
four thousand year old rubber stamp.
He’s aware of the smell of llamas.
His wife prepares flax he’ll weave
in the Inca tradition of colour and meaning.
His back will ache after hours
on the loom he wears
like an ice cream seller at the cinema.
He chants in descant to sweet squeaks -
they suddenly cease. His wife rodeos a feast.
Oils sizzle his consciousness like acid rain.
His daughter grimaces with arms
halo-ing her head like a deep-fried
South American delicacy.
He begins a lullaby.
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