My daughter looks at the sky
as if her real life might fall out of it.
Air pressure shifts
hope in her bones.
She sleeps long in the afternoon, confident
of her basic knowledge of gravity.


You have no faith, says my son, who claims to see
iguanas dance in Copán.
I saw too much to believe anything, I tell him.
I just watch a day
of no surprises.


You should see them fly, says my brother,
throwing grenades into the lake.
Fish spurt like fountains, a short day’s work.
His ambition overcast.
Explosions deep inside his hands.


You must stay strong, says my husband,
who marches his prosthetic leg
to the top of our hill each day.
I save my strength for death, I tell him.
My eyes closed, my breath too slow.


Today it rained fish,
cold flashes from the sky, caught in
silver agony. My son, my husband,
my daughter, my brother made a fire and
I savoured, in small bites,
the taste of grilled miracles.


by Catriona Cameron

Catriona Cameron is a Scottish writer who travels the world. She writes about the different countries where she has lived in ten years of travel. Her writing has been published in Guernica, Kweli, Magma and Tiferet, among others. Connect with her at

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