Easter, Kobbe Beach, Panama
The Man-Eaters

Easter, Kobbe Beach, Panama

Kobbe sounded a lot like cope
to me, and I remember when I

was younger, the plants here
could swell tongues and make you choke.

For two Easters I hid myself like an egg
from anyone who spoke too quickly

in Spanish—just about everyone.
Opening my books, dead roaches fell

from pages like pressed leaves.
Near the beach I climbed a cone-shaped pile

of sand by mistake and old women
poured beer on my legs to drown biting ants

that were larger than bumble bees.
It seemed too warm for an Easter Sunday.

An iguana attached itself outside
on the living room window

and kids in the district watched it to make
sure it didn't disturb the egg hunt.

Dad finally killed it to release its
stubborn grip from the screen.

The search had to be quick so the eggs
would not crack from the heat. I remember

stopping to uproot and chew on sugar cane in our back yard,
finding a pale blue one among its poisonous, purple stalks.

Later, it rained for days and we kept hiding
the little pots of boiled colors,
hoping more eggs would appear for us to find.

The Man-Eaters

There are two seasons in Panama, wet and dry.
The ocean laps the beach, palm trees tower with iguanas

clamping to trunks. Swarming anthills reach as high
as Mom; sloths are mounted on the hoods of parked cars.

In the town square, I clutch Mom's hand.
Women walk around with thick gold rings in their noses.

Their clothes, long togas, splash in orange and green,
fall to the ground, pool at their feet. Their dark hands reach

out and touch my curls. They've never seen white hair like mine.
They are bulls with soft, round faces,

dark from the sun, squinting while mom tells me
not to stare at the faces staring.

Still, they circle, and no man could protect me,
no man around. They could eat all men

with those clamping jaws, and still they twist my hair in their
fingers. I cry while standing there with bare feet,

a red ant smashed in the arch of my foot.
I stand in the middle of women

circling like sharks, patting my pale face and telling me
in a language I cannot understand, Bonita.

Kerry Hillis has recently published fiction and poetry in Danse Macabre and Crab Orchard Review and teaches writing and literature at Middle Tennessee State University and Tennessee Technological University. After being nomadic most of her life, she now lives in a rural Tennessee town with her three children and her husband and is trying to plant some roots. Contact information: kerry_hillis@hotmail.com.