i couldn’t pay the bill
so the lights went off.
the air conditioner shuddered
my lacks have transported me
the heat began growing.
in a while
the upstairs neighbor wakes
and begins chanting.
her voice is desire
drifting out of her window,
her prayers pollinate the morning
dios te salve, maria,
llena eres de gracia
and her children awake
their small steps pound through the floor
and wake their dog, wagging its tail.
they all approach the mother wanting
water and milk
yet the youngest stays sleeping,
catching the fever
that is everywhere in this land.
his mother cracks an egg
into a small porcelain dish,
then places it beneath his bed
and again takes up her chant, blessing
the sickness and the morning alike
Isarae Koval is a writer and visual artist living in the urban desert of Arizona. Her work often gazes into the dark side of human nature and sifts the collective unconscious in search of valuable images, insights, and truths. She is currently at work on her first collection of poetry, The Valleys of the Dead. Her poetry has appeared in Sky Island Journal and ChArt Journal.