Poem by Lisa Kouroupis

December 15, 2023


I watch a backpacker unfold himself like an unused map
at a Mexican restaurant in Minca, Colombia. He sits alone, orders

a hamburger and fries. It’s dumping rain out so we play Jenga,
tap teeth onto table, peer into each new jaw. He eats all the fries

first. The owners laugh as they stand on green plastic chairs and hold
the tarpaulin roof, which is about ready to vomit onto our heads.

Everything moves: the storm, the mud—its life as dust forgotten—
clings to small calves, everyone going wherever they can.

I can practically see the burger slip down his gullet like a rabbit,
dissolve in stomach acid. The owners hoist Olympic pools,

coax them toward the edge. Our tower wobbles.
Emptied, clouds slide off to graze on fresh meat.

About Lisa Kouroupis

Lisa Kouroupis is a poet and aspiring naturalist. She reads, writes, and collects hobbies in Chicago, IL. Her most recent work is forthcoming in West Trade Review.