Silver People

by Margarita Engle

  Moths nest on my shoulders.

  No one knows that I’m an animal

  instead of a tree limb.

  Time

  is my friend:

  I can wait for weeks

  just to move; I can eat so slowly,

  just one delicious leaf

  at a time.

  A TREE VIPER

  GREEN SNAKE OR GREEN PLANT?

  j

  u

  s

  t

  a

  v

  i

  n

  e

  u

  n

  t

  i

  l

  I

  BITE

  THE TREES

  SHRINKING

  It never seemed as if anything

  could make our huge trunks

  smaller

  but men

  with machines and explosives

  have made some of us

  vanish

  leaving the others

  lonely

  for

  time

  more time

  sun, soil, growth,

  while some of us shrink, others survive

  and grow, grow, grow . . .

  MATEO

  NOSTALGIA

  With no way to cook my own food,

  I add a single precious strand

  of the herb girl’s golden saffron

  to my dreary

  Serpent Cut lunch

  of plain white rice.

  The aroma helps me remember

  the best part of my past,

  when Mami was still alive

  and Papi knew the difference

  between wartime

  and family life.

  Each whiff of scented spice

  smells like a memory

  of happiness.

  MATEO

  SLEEP

  After another agonizing day of bending

  to lift ponderous train tracks,

  my back feels as twisted

  as a tangled vine in the jungle.

  Spine-shredding

  arm-wrenching

  spirit-crushing

  labor

  makes me wish

  for any job that would feel

  like an accomplishment

  instead of torture.

  In the evening, I listen to howlers

  and I dream of Anita, creating

  a night world that makes me

  smile.

  Later, nightmares send my hands

  thrashing through the mosquito net

  that hangs above my cot . . .

  Biting insects get in through the holes,

  leaving me itchy and bleeding

  and sad.

  HENRY

  SLEEPLESS

  Troubled by wishes, I get up

  and step outside, where I listen

  to rain, rain, gruesome rain,

  the night sky as thick

  and slick as a waterfall,

  the drumming of thunder

  so furious that it makes

  sleepless monkeys

  howl . . .

  Long after the noisy noisy downpour

  is over, I can still hear raindrops slipping

  down from one layer of leaves to another,

  until finally they settle beside my feet

  in swampy mud,

  where singing frogs hop

  and squirming leeches cling

  to my ankles.

  If only I could find some way

  to take a steamship home

  and start my life over.

  I’ve never had a chance

  to go to school. If I send enough

  silver home, will my little brothers

  and sisters be able to study?

  Maybe one of them will even

  grow up to be

  a teacher

  or a nurse.

  That would make all my Serpent Cut

  suffering

  worthwhile.

  MATEO

  DAYDREAMS

  Bend.

  Lift.

  Heave.

  Grunt.

  Ache.

  Howl!

  Escape from the pain

  by imagining

  the friendly herb girl

  with her necklace

  of feathers

  and wings . . .

  HENRY

  HATRED

  I’m so sick of rain, mud, shovels,

  and that SILVER payroll window!

  I hate seeing the bloodied face

  of the loser boy at payday fights.

  Why does he keep trying to beat me?

  He never wins any share of the bets.

  Can it be that maybe he’s exactly

  like me, just feeling a little bit crazy

  from all this bitter bitter

  Panama Craze

  disappointment?

  MATEO

  POSSIBILITIES

  On fight nights, I always meet Anita,

  and while we visit, she gives me a balm

  of wild herbs for my bruises.

  She tries to talk me out of violence,

  but when I point out her machete,

  she insists it’s her only protection

  against poisonous snakes

  and mean men.

  I can’t imagine being brave

  if I were a girl, alone in the forest . . .

  but when I tell Anita my thoughts,

  she laughs and says girls are just

  like boys—all they want

  is fairness

  and respect.

  ANITA

  MAYBE

  I know I’m too young to really flirt,

  but sometimes I do enjoy talking

  to the cubano boy

  instead of working . . .

  and sometimes, on Sundays, I love

  hearing the Jamaicans who sing

  in makeshift Silver Town churches,

  instead of listening

  only to birds, frogs, monkeys,

  and dreams . . .

  so maybe I won’t always stay

  quite so far away from human

  possibilities.

  MATEO

  CAUTION

  On free Sundays, some men doze,

  while others pray, or drink, or moan

  about the heat, rain, mosquitoes, biting ants,

  stinging wasps, ticks, tarantulas, scorpions,

  snakes, sore muscles, bone aches,

  brain boredom,

  and loneliness.

  In an effort to get away from anarchists

  who expect me to carry their newsletters

  all over the jungle, I roam alone

  like a wild creature, stashing

  the pamphlets in hollow logs

  and old tractors

  instead of delivering them

  to dangerous strangers.

  ANITA

  A MYSTERY

  I follow Mateo, without letting him

  see me.

  I know how to hide. I’ve been sneaky

  all my life. It’s the only way to survive

  in a land of hunters

  and hunted.

  I watch as he tucks a stack of papers into

  the rusty metal husks of huge machines

  abandoned by France many years ago,

  after that nation tried and failed to dig

  all the way across

  my forest.

  I try to imagine Mateo’s island.

  Are there sights that he treasures

  the same way I love and need

  the wild height

  of these trees?

  I have seen so many skillful little sketches

  that Mateo makes in mud with a stick.

  There are people, animals, birds,

  and nameless shapes that could be

  winged spirits—sometimes it’s not easy

  to tell the d
ifference when you live

  in a place of transformations, where

  caterpillars emerge as butterflies,

  tadpoles change into frogs,

  and tiny seeds grow

  until they reach

  the comforting size

  of whispery

  forest giants.

  When Mateo is gone, I creep

  toward the tractors and peek

  at the hidden papers, expecting

  drawings or paintings or a diary,

  but all I find is mysterious writing

  in a language I can’t

  understand.

  HENRY

  FREEDOM

  Other diggers tell me that if I ever see

  a gold-colored frog, I should catch it

  and care for it, until the frog rewards me

  by turning into real gold.

  So one morning I reach down and pull

  a black-speckled, bright yellow frog

  out of the mud. I can feel its tiny heart

  pulsing

  in my hand.

  Then I let it go, hoping that if the legend

  is true and golden frogs really can

  turn into valuable valuable jewels,

  then maybe I’ll find this one again

  someday, when it’s made out of metal,

  and I won’t feel like a warden

  guarding a captive.

  MATEO

  FEVERISH

  A fury of blazing sun turns to sweat.

  A chill in the evening follows. I lie awake

  in my soggy clothes, wishing for a blanket

  or a clean shirt, any small source

  of comfort . . .

  Shivering, I listen to the music of tree frogs,

  crickets, night monkeys, and screech owls,

  a whole orchestra of predators

  and prey.

  Why don’t all those singing animals

  fall silent? Can’t they hear that hidden

  jaguar’s silence?

  This fever feels like a hungry beast too.

  How long will its flame fangs take

  to devour me?

  ANITA

  FLOODS

  At the height of the rainy season,

  forest trails turn into swamps,

  so I row from village to village

  in an old dugout canoe

  so moist that mosses and ferns

  sprout from cracks

  in the splintered wood.

  I can’t let something as common as water

  keep me from working to help sick people

  by brewing teas and potions from herbs

  that I must keep finding and gathering

  right here in my vast garden, this forest,

  my world of pain

  and cures . . .

  As I glide past huts propped on stilts,

  children smile and wave

  from beneath big leaves

  that their mothers call

  “poor man’s umbrellas.”

  When the furious rain pounds down

  so hard and fast that my little canoe

  starts to fill up with water,

  I try to scoop it out

  with a coconut shell,

  but the flow is too swift,

  so I have to give up

  and drift back toward my home,

  a jungle inn called La Cubana María,

  after my adoptive grandma, an old

  island herb woman

  who has cared for me

  since I was tiny.

  She is the one who still teaches me

  how to heal every strange

  human sorrow

  except

  my own.

  Is it foolish for me to wish

  that someday I might meet

  my true mother?

  OLD MARIA

  from the island of Cuba

  MY CLINIC-INN

  I was here long before the Americans,

  before the French, even before the bold

  adventurers from many lands who flocked

  across Panamá back when it still belonged

  to Colombia, and greedy crowds

  from every nation on earth

  were making their way

  to the California gold rush.

  There were no doctors in this forest,

  so when a traveler fell ill, he came here,

  seeking cures from the power of plants.

  By the time an abandoned baby was found

  in one of the rooms, I was old and tired,

  but caring for little Anita gave me energy,

  so I held her, and fed her, and taught her

  the art of offering

  hope.

  ANITA

  DANGER

  There is nothing I love more

  than listening to la vieja María

  tell tales

  of long ago.

  If I survived without a mother, then

  maybe others will survive now, when

  each day brings news of death.

  As the Serpent Cut grows deeper,

  rain softens the mud and landslides

  swallow laborers. Wheels of vultures

  circle high above the pit, eager to fill

  their winged hunger.

  I try to talk Mateo into running away

  from his contract, but his fear of policemen

  is greater than his fear

  of landslides.

  MATEO

  SLIDING

  When my crew is assigned to a slope

  called la Cucaracha—“the Cockroach”—

  we all feel doomed.

  Dynamite blasts send

  giant hissing insects into the air

  around our heads,

  while pit viper snakes

  slither close to our boots.

  Each explosion is more risky than the last.

  Layers of mud between layers of stone

  are shoveled into dirt trains by Jamaicans,

  while we bend,

  heave,

  lift,

  groan,

  pray,

  and slip

  down, down, down,

  shoved

  by a mudslide,

  pushed

  toward death.

  HENRY

  BURIED

  Mud all around me

  beneath and above

  mud that boils

  roars

  and rumbles

  crushes my breath

  steals my voice

  mud that covers

  the future

  and buries me

  in gloom.

  MATEO

  DESPERATE

  Every survivor leaps to help,

  all of us digging side by side,

  silver and gold men

  equally grateful

  to be alive!

  Our digging is urgent

  but careful,

  just in case any buried men

  might be injured by our frantic,

  trembling, pounding

  shovels.

  HENRY

  RESCUED

  Face

  to

  face

  only a thin sheet of mud

  between us

  hands

  reach for my arms

  as my

  voice returns

  to thank the loser boy

  who is right here

  so close

  his familiar eyes suddenly

  the eyes

  of a friend.

  MATEO

  ARRESTED

  After the landslide, somehow I expect

  a few days off—a chance to feel relieved

  that I survived and grateful that I helped

  rescue the Jamaican boxer—

  but this Cucaracha slope

  never gives me a rest.

  I have to keep working, and wishing,

  and even
though I haven’t hidden

  any anarchist pamphlets lately,

  one night, during a lightning storm,

  police break into the boxcar and awaken us

  with clubs, beating us, then dragging us

  away to prison.

  MATEO

  QUESTIONED

  During days as dark as night,

  I’m chained in a windowless cell.

  No light.

  No air.

  Just questions.

  And fists.

  During days as lonely as nights,

  I grow more anxious

  for answers.

  ANITA

  KICKERS

  The prison is called Renacer—“Rebirth”—

  because men who go in big and strong

  are said to come out as weak

  and helpless

  as babies.