In The Earthquake of 1949

I.

We wait to return to the church
once the earthquake stops.
I’m the last in the group of girls
following the nun back in for catechism.
When my feet touch the steps, I pause.
Flocks of pigeons burst into the sky.
The earth rumbles again, then fractures.

Inside the church, pools of holy water
seep through cracks,
columns snap like matches,
arches buckle over the dropping saints.
A priest drops the cross.
when I see walls fold inward from the top,
the heavy wooden doors shatter,
I run back into the park.

Stucco houses around the church
spit rubble. A wave of debris knocks
me down. Separated from everyone,
I crawl under a bench, my face caked in dust.
The ringing overpowers me; I rub
my eyes, try to breathe through my mouth.
The sky has vanished, and I beg
the earth to be still.

II.

Once the aftershocks finish,
they count out the family.
Someone asks, ¡María! ¿Dónde está María?

Before they can argue who will go,
Jorge is running to the church to find her.
He stumbles, trips on rocks.
The ground dips where it didn’t before.

The church no longer has a roof;
the steps are smashed to powder.

Out of breath, Jorge calls for his sister
and hears muffled moans from a man in a blue suit
under heavy stones.

The man vomits and bleeds.
Even though Jorge carries him to safety,
the man dies on his back.
He puts the body down outside the church.

He touches stray hands and limbs in rubble,
some stones too big to move.
Jorge doesn’t see María, but uncovers more people.

He carries them out,
but none of them were meant to be saved.

III.

I don’t know how my brother Jorge found me
in the park, but I hear my name.
He runs to me when I crawl from under
the bench and rubble. I hug him and cry.
My arms pull him tight. He dusts me off.

Jorge carries me in his arms.
I’m trembling, and he doesn’t speak.
Ambato is leveled—
the old Spanish buildings gone,
buildings still shifting
and crumbling down.
Our river now flows the wrong way.

The ground’s unstable and soft like skin.
Rising black smoke on the next block.
whoever isn’t digging and bawling out names
is too scared to move,
eyes wide, fearing tremors
and the familiar bodies
grouped along each block.

On our street, our family waits around
the table they dragged outside. I imagine
my mother, father, and all our siblings’ wet eyes
looking at me like they’re seeing my face
for the first time in years.
And when Jorge and I get closer to home,
they run to us.

Phobias

You rub your hands together and shiver when you tell me the story.
In Panama, every soldier in your unit builds rafts out of branches,
weaves of grass, and ponchos. One at a time,

everyone moves across the Chagres. Your raft, near the center
of the murky current, unravels. Under your breath and river’s
    grinding,
you feel something like leeches seep into your clothing

and fill your boots. The young soldier, you call him strong swimmer,
tucks the damp rope in his mouth to drag you
and the remaining bits of raft. Seeing through waves

lapping in my eyes, I imagine myself hearing the silence
then rush of the Chagres, and the kicking ache of my legs struggling
to float. My arms extend, then spear us forward. I know you cannot
    swim,

but the way you tell the story, of how you nearly drowned
without getting your hair wet, makes me taste river froth
spitting down my chin, and see the bank becoming bigger and
    bigger.

After the river devours your hat, the rope braids
into itself and jerks in your hands. You close your eyes
to feel him kick his legs through the current.