after “Abajo del Agua” by S. Llach

1.

The Pacific Ocean at night, seen from inside a bus full of strangers en route to Dominical by way of the Interamerican highway. This is what I’m thinking about now. It’s an ordinary image without a doubt, but (for some reason) it won’t leave me alone. An arbitrary image that comes back every now and again, same as those waves I can almost see unmaking themselves in the sand; branches, seashells, a sandal, corks, and wine cartons brought back like buoys from some other ruin run aground on a new continent. The sea at night, when it’s invisible. When it speaks in tongues, so that we know it’s still there, where sight doesn’t serve us. The night’s sea, lonelier and even less fathomable than the day’s. The sea of simpler songs only the drowned and the fish know to sing.

Earlier the same night, the same sea, the same sand where, without a word, we’d bury our feet up to the ankles, rapt by the fire and the embers dervishing until they disappear with a crackling in the air only half-heard. Not so far away, someone is listening to a radio, listening to news of a world that may as well have been suspended a million light years from what is here now. Others come up close behind us. We overhear a conversation that could have been an extension of our own. And yes, the dogs barking in back yards, all the house lights going out one by one.

2.

Of all nights, why dream of an ex-girlfriend you haven’t heard anything about since graduation on this night in particular? Why, in the dream, is she wearing nothing but a bikini, still looking the way she did during your senior year in high school?

On a Thursday, say, running the same errands you’d run any other day, why are you suddenly willing to give one of your thumbs to go back to the bench you woke up on, in a depressing little park outside of Dominical on New Year’s Day? That morning, destroyed, having to face a standoffish ocean, no money for the bus, bodies all around, lying there still, the deviants you swore you’d love forever, arms around each other’s necks last night, howling. The sea does not explain. The sea does not care to, not to us anyway.

An over-population of fauna on the shore, the vacationing kind. The sea, where it’s deepest, moving to the imperceptible rhythm of fossil fuel. Fishermen, further in, pissing covertly. Seagulls and small aquatic mammals escort boats traveling with only one man aboard.

Those who, facing the ocean, close their eyes and make empty promises. Those who do the same, but don’t close their eyes. Those who stand in ankle-deep water, believing the whole ocean’s knowable from that depth. Those who let themselves be buried in the sand, those who build sandcastles. Those who pitch messageless bottles into the ocean, belching. Those who intuit the ocean is no more than a whole lot of water.

In the family album, an empty space, a rectangle: lost photograph of the boy with a tendency towards obesity, alone on the beach, standing in front of the Pacific, the cleanest morning in 1974. That morning, at a right angle, his figure and the slight shadow he casts over the sand forms a sundial. The sea like hard candy.

Gustave Courbet, The Calm Sea, 1869. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, H. O. Havemeyer Collection, Bequest of Mrs. H. O. Havemeyer, 1929

Luis Chaves

Luis Chaves is a poet, novelist, and translator. His work has been published in Costa Rica, Mexico, Argentina, Spain, Germany, Italy, and Slovenia. He was awarded the National Poetry Prize by the Ministry of Culture in Costa Rica in 2012. The Akademie Schloss Stuttgart in Germany awarded him the “Jean Jacques Rousseau” grant in 2011. He was a 2015 fellow for the Artists in Berlin Program; after a fellowship in Nantes, France, he is living in San José, Costa Rica.

Julia Guez

Julia Guez is a poet, writer, and translator. Her debut collection of poetry, In an Invisible Glass Case Which Is Also a Frame, is out this fall from Four Way Books. Guez lives in Brooklyn and online at www.juliaguez.net

Samantha Zighelboim

Samantha Zighelboim is the author of The Fat Sonnets (Argos Books, 2018). Her poems, translations, and essays have appeared or are forthcoming in POETRY, Boston Review, Lit Hub, The Guardian, Guernica, and PEN Poetry Series, among others. Samantha is a 2017 NYFA/NYSCA Fellow in Poetry, a recipient of a FACE OUT grant from the Community of Literary Magazines and Presses (CLMP), and the co-recipient of the 2016 John Frederick Nims Memorial Prize in Translation from The Poetry Foundation. She lives in New York City, and teaches creative writing and literature at Rutgers University and The New School.