You sail placidly down the Orinoco in a white dress.
You cross your legs and accept a drink from a stranger.
But then your mother and father, dragging the dead mule
Out of the shade, begin waving and calling.

You can swim over and kneel beside the animal.
Speaking softly, you do not disturb the toucan,
Who dreams, on the branch just above you,
That his stripes have grown younger.

Your mother and father kneel behind you
And flutter their hands weakly as if in prayer, until
It seems you too are clutching a limb with huge claws,
As the skin over each knuckle hardens.

You grip deeply, until there is no future but this.
You think of your rented house trailer,
Of the smoke that is rising bashfully
Out of all the chimneys at once in Boise, Idaho.

But you suspect something.
The jungle is too green.
The mule's lips are becoming a little too intimate.
And these two aren't your real parents.

for M.