Honduran Night Wars

To go back there…

I can’t forget long dark nights of anxious dreams,
visiting every place I’ve ever lived, escaped, survived,
even the house where I was born,
sitting in my parent’s bedroom straining to hear the clock,
using the tick, tick, tick to try to fall asleep.

My closed eyes bring the darkness of the old neighborhood,
searching for friends,
some dead, some hiding, some barely alive.
I wander into junk-filled back yards
where once green-leafed trees now waver,
weak, stripped of life,
looking like war’s crippled results on crutches.

Some nights…

My dreams take me to a tree stump of long ago,
Grandma’s chopping block for beheading chicken dinners,
amidst the chaos of roosters and hens
still with their heads attached
scampering for safety.

And then…

The battle worn black cat slips out of the shadows,
rubs herself against my willing legs,
letting me know once again
she’ll be my nocturnal guide.

Such night wars take me scrambling over debris,
dodging random bullets,
corrupt military,
power hungry gangs,
chasing me and the cat
into a cowering huddle in the shadows,
remembering so many missing faces,
always ready for more newly born ghosts.