In Monteverde 

the women were rainy seasons. Stray dogs lumbered
to stoops, their teats dragging. Phone lines drooped

            under lamb smoke and fat birds full

of rice. It was the year I lived among clouds— 
torqued and skittish. I had my own ideas about love:

            stormy countries, women named Nadege,

buckets of lucky fish. I told myself the moon was full
and the trumpets loud. I couldn’t sober up. I thought only

            of monsoons, hot springs, my breath

in the heart of a balloon. The truth is morning smelled
of bruised mangoes and wet dog. Each evening the street

            below was dirty, flooded. At night,

red dust settled between my teeth. My back hammocked
in the rotting bed. With every clench of my jaw, I could hear

            the grit of a country unbuilding me.


by Megan Peak

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Megan Peak is a graduate student in The Ohio State University's MFA Program in Poetry. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in A cappella Zoo, Banango Street, The Boiler Journal, DIAGRAM, Four Way Review, North American Review, PANK, The Pinch, Pleiades, THRUSH Poetry Journal, and Tupelo Quarterly.