BIO
Alberto J. Montero is a practicing medical oncologist, and received his undergraduate and medical degrees from the University of Texas at Austin and University of Texas at Galveston, respectively. His passions include poetry, fiction, philosophy, and photography. His creative writing has been previously published in other journals.
Hazards of Living in America
I. Don’t go to Honduras
This was advice (unsolicited)
given “freely” to me from
others
crime statistics were cited and invoked
from the Gospel of
Time magazine
incense burned
Tegucigalpa is murder central
second only to San Pedro Sula,
also in Honduras!
I have heard this before
“don’t go to….
Colombia.”
this was murder central back in 2000−
the whole country,
from Caribbean coast to Amazon rainforest
and, yet I lived to write about it
II. Tegucigalpa
Tegus was of course no war zone
not Iraq or Syria or
even south side Chicago
corrupt police in Honduras bought with
American drug money
some parts of Tegus are forgotten,
but they don’t go so quietly
corrugated colonias
on a mountain side,
filled with disposable people
condemned to a life of poverty and ignorance,
but those well-manicured politicians forget
that the forgotten
have long memories,
they want to live
and their instincts won’t let them go quietly
part of the hazards of living
in Tegus
hence, guns everywhere!
in plain sight
even at the Chinese Honduran restaurant
doorman gave me a kindly shot-gun greeting
guns are merely a symptom
violence in America Latina
is effect, not cause.
Newton’s 3rd law—
an American shoves cocaine up his nostrils in Miami
50 dead killed in a Tegus barrio
no innocents
northern hands are tainted too
the hypocrisy is blinding
yet, life on the surface is normal in Tegus,
but the lines between rich and poor
cut like a surgeon’s scalpel
and open veins in America still bleed
part of the hazards of living.
III. Back in Cleveland
Radio in my car announces another black man killed by police
next hashtag meme
Sylville Smith
our next dot
stretching to Michael Brown and Eric Garner and beyond.
“rioting in Milwaukee,” announcer goes on,
like reporting the weather.
nothing out of the ordinary here,
just part of the hazards of life in America
La tienda de la esquina
The shoe repair man, greets me this afternoon with his melodious call—
“re-mon-ta-
DU-RA!”
in this way,
that
mender of soles raises me
like Lazarus
from my tropical tomb
of afternoon slumber
“we are out of café,” mi suegra
la doctora
Fanny
says
off I straggle outside
eyes still heavy from my siesta
a la tienda de la esquina.
I’m greeted by little boy
sucking on a bon-bon bum
sitting in front of
Don Jose’s tienda
his face the color of rojo fresco
he is talking with his friend
echandose un lulazo
cara de rojo asks his friend
“a donde se fue tu taita?”
lulazo responds with a shrug
sounds of accordions wafting in the air throughout la Floresta
some prefer playing Diomedes,
others Carlos
meanwhile
Don José plays salsa Caleña in his store
on a small table, some men of la Floresta talk about
women and fútbol
but the main event is drinking Aguila
vecino asks Don José “por una cerveza para el gringo”
politely I decline.
“la suegra” is waiting for the post-siesta café
Don José asks if I want to try “chanfaina”
he made it himself.
I settle for an empanada
Un billette de vente mil pesos I give to Don Jose
I get back my vueltas
plus “un mandado”
para la Doctora
I walk back down to the house
pass by dos perros chandosos running behind
avocado vendor’s chorus
“agua-cate,
agua-cate ,
AGUA-CATE!”