Welcome

tar-filthy entrepreneur and his tar-filthy apprentice

planted a water wheel in the river, were seen

dragging wires through the village like endless tails.

Postholes were dug like prayers, fulfilled

by unwary ankles and mosquito brood.

Now moon has found her first competitor

glowing at the end of a eucalyptus pole

dim as rumors of phones we will charge,

light termites will mistake for moons

as we slap them into bowls to fry

when air is electric with rain-smell and wings,

or a TV, if we dare to dream. Rain is heard

before it is seen. Thirsty earth applause

roars loud as pop music from dry-season weddings.

Before these flatulent subwoofers echoed

over hills, some remember radios. My neighbor remembers

pounding feet and goat-skin drums.

Weeding beets, which my students proclaim “too red” to eat,

one turns to me, “teacher, you are the color of teeth!

Teeth that bite everything!”

What could I say? She was right.

I owe my bright teeth to the dark sky.

Brushing while counting stars, impatience melts

in whims of moonlight: her inky absence,

her grin widening nightly until moon beams

make the world sweet and new again

as a bar of forgotten chocolate, found miraculously

uneaten by rats. I dream of them baking cakes

from all the avocados, baking soda, chilies, soap, underwear

they’ve stolen while I sleep, over stubborn coals

left smoldering on cold winter nights.

Streetlights grow on streets. Dirtlights illuminate nothing

like overfull moon dusting silver sugar everywhere, whispering

“I’ve-made-too-much-cake-won’t-you-all-help-me-eat-some?”

A forest of streetlights has enough electricity

to fry the moon like an egg, but some teeth ache

for more sweetness in this new world without night.