Chincha, Peru in three parts

one:

Nothing here is permanent.
Everything folds up,
rolls away,
vanishes into an unmemorable memory.

Wind blows
sand,
covers the dead, the left behind.

I prefer to crunch as many shells under bare feet as I can stand.

Until now (then)
I've never had the premonition that I might be buried so slowly,
one grain of sand at a time,
as if I lived in my very own hourglass,
stuck
blank
drowning.

Abandoned shells,
abandoned towns,
amidst the fold up shops,
roll away carts,
fall down walls,
for all but a few hours a day,
pumps smell.

two:

Spices, fish, caldos, y pan,
then urine, trash, and motor oil,
wiped away by braided women
waving plastic bag flags
over quail eggs,
orange sweets, golden rolls of every shape,
and there's the fruit carts,
(but that's another poem).

Chicken feet claw the air.
(We see them later in our breakfast soup.)
Fish bodies splay open,
vulnerable,
singing their hearts out for streets full of non-believers.

Bowls and bowls of sauces,
red, yellow, green,
a treat to the eye .
A whisper of smell, but if you get close enough they will tell you the most complicated of tales.

three:

The grandmas are beautiful here.
missing teeth,
old owl eyes.
They smile back and I blush.