Last Photograph Of My Parents

San José, Costa Rica

Tortillas clap against floured palms,
steaming bowls of avena, frijoles
black as the rumbling sky,
arroz con pollo simmers. Against the kitchen

window, small clouds rise. Papá dances
to the electric beat of the marimba,
his cheek bristly against Mamá’s
neck; his thick fingers sift

through her wispy hair. I am nowhere
to be found, neither in the foreground nor
background. Today I sit in this chair,
in the corner of my house, covered
with a poncho of blue flowers,
looking out at asphalt roads overflowing
with rain, fogging the glass. Along the road,
steam rises like blotchy fingerprints.