Bella Bolivia

Bella Bolivia. You have been a cold country. The rivers in your lowlands run warmer than the tap water that freezescalds my fingers. I still haven't recovered from that sting. Your hillsides are naked, exposed, small potato fields struggling to warm themselves in your rocky earth. Clouds scratched across blue endless skies. Faces made of leather, shoes made of tired tires. I can see the bones of your elbows, your ankles, chalky with cold. The wind leaves your cheeks a crackly red, and your eyes, dry ceramic pots.

Bella Bolivia. In your Spanish chapels, the gold peels and I see earth material underneath. Jesus hangs on a faded cross of leather canvas. In your once silver-coated mountains, Indigenous blood paints the rock. Your history is skin and bones.

Bella Bolivia. From my bus window, I see your day meet night on the horizon, smelling sweet. I see your trees bending into the sunset, beaming with the golden reflection. Your lakes are a sea of tos'd glitter. Your streets a stony hallway. Your ancients, dressed like dolls, sink deep into the puddle of their skirts, melt down into the earth from whence comes the warmth, like your adobe homes. I watch your youth digging at the earth, revolving the minerals found there. I watch your men, coca juice filling their mouths, moving to a rhythm birthed in their torsos, wrung from the sorrow of the zampoño.

Bella Bolivia. You ARE beautiful.