William Archila

Outhouse    

It's him again, a man clean
as a knife, plodding among fields
sprouting to the sky, pack of smokes
nestled in the folded sleeve
of his arm, a firm grip
on his guitar. I want to say
his sister waits for him
in a dress of yellow poppies—
a recruit she hasn't met
yet leaving the barracks.
He doesn't recognize me, his
sister's boy wandering
the black hills of Candelaria
searching for his green eyes.
He doesn't know she ran
across city-mountains, following
the steps of a brother, how
her house crumbled to the ground,
trees cut-down, nothing left,
not even earth beneath
her feet. I can't remember
how long I stood as smoke
covered the street corner
and mother stubbed out
his cigarettes. It breaks her
to talk now, knowing her brother
was cut to pieces, burnt down
in an outhouse. I was five
when he leaned against the wall
plucking strings, each chord
like brown waters groaning
under the bridge, the moon
in the sky a spot of ash.