Sharing papayas on Christmas on a 2nd-floor balcony as the sun sets before us

a poem about the last day on my Costa Rica trip; for Ina

Jeison’s disco slowed its pirouette on the morning of the 25th.
San José, sloshed in a festive slumber,
indulges in lonely prayers on family tapes.

The stranger on the sofa will wake
when the kitchen reheats last night’s feast.

Beer boxes are mushy from hangovers. Bad Spanish 
undiluted. Two travelers hit the road at five AM.

Chino Alegre, the only restaurant open
on the entire street. I order 两盘面，一份素菜一份牛肉. 
Extra hot sauce on the side.

Fresh fruit for dessert
makes us the two happiest people alive.

On the lid of a plastic tupperware, 
Ina cuts a papaya in half, then into blocks.
Orange fibers still sticking to the blade
as she retracts her Swiss army knife.

As if forgetting an offering,
she zaps the blade open
and stabs a perfect square.

“For you.”