Finding a House in Paraguay
Susan Meyers
White with a red roof. On a hill above the river.
Four blocks off the market. Two from the school.
But the building is so old. Sabes que haren problemas.
This one is green with colonial windows,
columnades, bouganvillia. A beautiful find.
But it is so far, she moans, from everything.
Each day in the hotel lobby Pamela circles classifieds:
a house by la plaza, one near the feria. A year ago
her husband died, back home in Argentina.
Di lo que quieres, she warns me. Women never say
what they want. Now I must find a home for my children,
she says. The ones I am going to adopt.
A boy, a girl: like us. That's what she wants.
My lover waits by the door.
Where are you traveling?
Today the ruins at Trinidad, I tell her.
And then? But we haven't yet decided.
Ah, mi nina, cuidate. Be careful of what you forget to ask.
That evening at Trinidad we are alone:
red stones pickeled with light,
the front of the church like a face, stragely removed.
And we could be children, climbing
over limestone walls, fingering remains.
No ceiling, no doorway.
We walk through these rooms without sin.
Di lo que quieres. As though any of us
could ever guess what comes next.
White with a red roof. On a hill above the river.
Four blocks off the market. Two from the school.
But the building is so old. Sabes que haren problemas.
This one is green with colonial windows,
columnades, bouganvillia. A beautiful find.
But it is so far, she moans, from everything.
Each day in the hotel lobby Pamela circles classifieds:
a house by la plaza, one near the feria. A year ago
her husband died, back home in Argentina.
Di lo que quieres, she warns me. Women never say
what they want. Now I must find a home for my children,
she says. The ones I am going to adopt.
A boy, a girl: like us. That's what she wants.
My lover waits by the door.
Where are you traveling?
Today the ruins at Trinidad, I tell her.
And then? But we haven't yet decided.
Ah, mi nina, cuidate. Be careful of what you forget to ask.
That evening at Trinidad we are alone:
red stones pickeled with light,
the front of the church like a face, stragely removed.
And we could be children, climbing
over limestone walls, fingering remains.
No ceiling, no doorway.
We walk through these rooms without sin.
Di lo que quieres. As though any of us
could ever guess what comes next.