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Puerto Jiménez
This is where we came to rest
on our way to paradise,
prop plane idling, laden with
our duffle bags and dreams of
life away from howler monkeys
braying in our ears back home,
seeking peace amidst the wild
Costa Rican forest flora—
outré birds and ocelots,
two-toed sloths and coatimundi,
water-walking Jesus lizards—
only to encounter
death:
a tiny cemetery
by our lonesome landing strip,
cockeyed crosses, black mold staining
jagged rows of concrete crypts
above the ground like buttress roots
tangled in the humid forest,
clinging lightly to the clay,
breathing in the cloudy air.
And I wondered as we taxied
if the dead preceded us,
soaring off above the ocean
like a pouch of pelicans
or they waited by the runway
lying in their sunlit bardo,
more like the resplendent quetzals
perched in avocado trees,
heedless of the needful travelers
touching down and taking off
into the sky, as if this land
were paradise enough.
- Ken Honeywell
Ken Honeywell is a reader, writer, Butler University graduate, and long-time Indianapolis resident. His poetry has appeared in Chronogram, Cider Press Review, Flying Island, So It Goes (the Literary Journal of the Kurt Vonnegut Museum and Library), and elsewhere. He serves on several nonprofit boards and hosts the Radio Free Book Club podcast.