MONROE DOCTRINE By Michael A. Sells
The sprinkler ticks on a summer eve.
On the porch they gaze into the end of the day.
The barking of a dog fades into the streetlight’s buzzing
And as one listens, he thinks he hears
a sound that lies behind the shrubbery’s drowsy leaves,
trace of a sound of someone screaming,
on the far side of night in Guatemala.
On the soft back lawn
the moon falls down upon her knees.
When the wind calms you can hear her,
Mariela, in liquid, melting veils,
whisper on the breath of the night air.