by Karen Bramblett
The Caribbean’s azure hands
gather moisture, pour water
over the mountains
where it tumbles
down in a rocky river
to the steel bridge
at Boquete’s center.
On the west side,
the Caldera River is flanked
by tall-spined grass
and adobe homes with open
balconies. To the east,
half-brown blades flop over
before a fenced-in, manicured lawn
and asphalt path.
From the bridge, I ask the river
if I should make this Panama
town my home. But she flows
in wordless murmur
and crashes into concrete piers
beneath the bridge.
Back in California and still undecided,
I realize the river asked
a different question entirely,
the one that rains from the sky—
that her grasses shouted
not where, but how? with their bright
and broken bodies.
Karen Bramblett’s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Eclectica Magazine, Autumn Moon Haiku Journal, Willows Wept Review, Thimble Literary Magazine, South Florida Poetry Journal, and elsewhere. She holds an MFA from Lindenwood University and lives in Northern California with her spouse and two cats. Follow her on Bluesky @poetryeverywhere.bsky.social.
January House Literary Journal 
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