7th Day of the Rainy Season by Susan Briante

Along the Pan American Highway, farmhands wade through fields of roses.

Pills linger on the tongue like moths on water.

Droplets of pollen slip from anther to stamen.

I wait at a tollbooth with market bag and notebook.

A stem’s placability should not be mistaken for delicateness.

“Breathe deep,” the doctor told me and slid his stethoscope like a coin over my chest.

A seat by the window suffices to stitch the world together.

Consider the number of heartbeats per minute within
this pasture of traffic.

Exaggerated mania for identification, writes André Tridon, is a symptom of weakness.

Vaya con dios. Frene con motor.

During a season of vinegary prescriptions, I sketch market produce and bullrings.

When fertilization takes place, ovaries swell, each petal folds like a fist.

Before a sloshing door at the back of the bus, who
wouldn’t resent the IMF?

Along the Pan American Highway, a beekeeper tends the blue cabinets of his hives.

A billboard celebrates: 300,000 more miles of pavement.

by Susan Briante

published in DIAGRAM 4.3

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