It isn't the heat. I keep telling you.
Cartagena is always hot. My grandmother
crocheted in this heat, said the rosary in this heat,
buried two husbands in this heat
and never once looked like this.
The fan turns. It's been turning since 1950.
It has seen things. It isn't impressed.
You're on the bed under the mosquito net
and the streetlamp outside makes the net glow red,
so you look like something kept in a jewel box,
something I'm not supposed to open,
and the ice in my rum has given up,
and I've given up,
and the bougainvillea at the window
is leaning in to listen.
Feel my forehead, I say. I'm burning.
You do. You put the back of your hand there
like a nurse, very serious,
and then the inside of your wrist,
and then — because you're a liar and a thief and I adore you —
your mouth,
and you say: _yes, it's bad, it's very bad,
you'll have to stay in bed all night._
The fan turns. The city drums somewhere
on a plastic bucket for tourists.
The net comes down around us like a veil
and the red light goes everywhere it wants,
on your back, my knees, the sweat at your collarbone,
and I tell you again —
I'm saying it into your shoulder now,
so maybe you don't hear —
it isn't the heat.
It was never the heat.
