Oh, sweet Delia, she was a Chiquita banana of a woman,
small yellow teeth with a musk like sweet wine that had sat in the sun
for seven days, then risen like the bile in old Job’s throat. If
I could make
Costa Rica forget all the wrong I’ve done, I would only do more.
your name, I said, she said, “Que?” With a slight lisp, so
that it sounded
like ‘gay.’ I won’t say I’d had too much to drink,
there is not enough Delia
for me to ever drink myself full, though after several draughts I had
to the bathroom. I was back in bed wondering where my sweet Delia
had run off to before I realized Costa Rica had no bathrooms, no women,
and no sheets to rival my sweet, sweet Delia.