Roofing in Belize

Roofing in Belize

After the 67th Hurricane this century,

we began at last to understand the missionaries

who told us the good book would save us

from the lash of eternal hellfire,

the sour mango taste of poverty.



Even if we had money

there were no shingles in the city.

The Prime Minister glued them over pot-holes

so he could win his re-election.

They crumbled to coffee grounds

within a week.



Uncle Myron, the police officer,

through his thin window at the station

watched a single flying shingle

decapitate a looter in one second.



In the eye of the storm we took shelter in

the concrete block church on Hecker road.

The missionaries had fled for America

seven days before, a timespan

they said was enough for God

to build a whole new world.



So many iguanas died, we crunched

their bones on our walk home, carrying

boxes of Bibles on our shoulders,

singing creole songs.



What was left of our roof was leaking

on the bedsheets on the babies, so

we dunked the Bibles in creosote and

laid them down like shingles.



Our roof looked like the heavens:

pitch black, sparkling here and there.

Two hundred Bibles crucified

by constellations of roofing nails.



Wolff Bowden

The Crayon

Late last night in my art studio I heard a slight whispering crunch in the corner next to the towering shelves where I store my supplies. So I turned on my heels with the intention of finding out just who was making this sound. Was it one of the million lizards that roam the yard, gobbling ants? Was it a misdirected dragonfly trapped beneath a plastic bag? I heard it again and the sound struck me as being that of a tiny car, a matchbox car, rolling down a cold patch of concrete on an autumn day, kicking up leaves in it’s wake. But this was the thick of a summer night and I was wary also of the massive spiders which lately had been dashing across the walkway outside. I crept right up to the source of the sound and watched as a lone crayon rolled out from beneath a sketch of a blue hot-air balloon that I couldn’t remember sketching. The crayon rolled very deliberately up to my shoe and tapped into it with the force of a hammer. I was astounded! Did something roll this crayon out from under the mystery sketch? He couldn’t have rolled out all by himself, could he? As I pondered all this, he backed up and rolled into my shoe again. I didn’t see this, but felt the tap, so I lifted my shoe and he rolled right under it. “Aren’t you a rambler,” I said, watching him roll along the paint spattered floor. Now, it’s not every night you see a rambling crayon, so I had to think quick. He was headed for the garage door, which I had cracked slightly to vent the studio. Did I have time to video this rolling crayon. No. At the rate he was moving, no. So I relaxed and just enjoyed the sight of that lone, blue (almost turquoise) crayon making his way towards the enormous night. It was 3:34 AM when he slipped out under the stars. I closed my eyes and listened as he spun the one long wheel of his body down the driveway, under the car and onward to wherever crayons go when they are finished coloring. In his little paper jacket, down the slope to the road, he went.

Our Biggest Fan.

The Winterlings Manifesto

Every day, we live through four seasons. From the spring of early morning to the deep winter of night, where we wade through shifting blizzards of dreams. Winterlings dwell in this season, with pens in our fists and paintbrushes gripped in our teeth, giving birth by starlight, lifting songs from the ocean of sleep...

Nightwinter is the season where we fly as easily as we breathe, bidding the cocoon of gravity goodbye, sprouting monarch’s wings. The season where cricket songs brighten small shadows beneath sleeping oaks. Where campfires bloom with the light of logs turning to ghosts. Where our ribs become bronze strings on the old guitars of our hearts. Where we dance across a pristine ocean on the backs of great blue whales.

When morning arrives, most of us shake the Nightwinter out of our coats like a dog come ashore from a lake. With alarm clocks and coffee and a dose of dark news, we erase the night with the day. But a few refuse to shake the moonlight from their skin. A few who roam in tuxedoes of poems, in gowns of dew and lightning. A few who stand in full sun, and yet feel the constellations moving through them. A few whose smiles are light as dragonflies. A few who refuse to remove their marvelous midnight wings. A few who drink rain straight from the sky and become children again. These, we call The Winterlings.

If you listen like a magnet to the wild iron of song, you are a Winterling. If your eyes behold a blessing between every pair of blinks, you are a Winterling. If you burn to paint the canvas of your days, you are a Winterling. If you feel the bliss of breath as it moves through your hollow chest. If novels evolve you and films make you weep for the dreams of your fellow beings. If you raise your eyes to watch a stormcloud being born over the sea. If you hold still while the twilight fills your ears with whippoorwills. If a lyric can swoop into your silent mind and give you chills.

If you lean like a seedling towards the saffron pouring from the sky. If you leave your room at sunset so fire-rimmed mountains might fill your eyes. If you bend to your lover’s lips as the sea-wind bends a kite. If you carry with you, though secret and slight, a sliver of infinite night. You are a Winterling.

-Wolff Bowden