【Written by Paz Ortiz】

Two hands (both left) connect the Andes to my spine,
I know the Pacific like the palm of my girl’s hand.
To think I would eventually be learned
to see circulatory systems in spiderwebs
and connections in parallel lines.

A kid and a man—Thor Heyerdahl—
are sure El Callao and the sun kiss during the night,
and I grew up in it, you see, the summer is hot
(unlike Oslo in December).
They both showed their lovers its silver sky.

“I’ve never seen a lighthouse,” I admit,
which roughly translates to I am scared of the dark.
You say you know the Atlantic like the freckles in my upper lip,
like the beating of my heart.
In Norway, the bread tasted like a pair of blue eyes.

We will always have Paris, peaches, a reason (many?) to cry,
I promised you’ll always have my smile in Machu Picchu.
I know you cannot eat a poem, mi tesoro, but can we at least try?
And in turn I swear to you I will keep myself warm
until the raft arrives.