by Erin Currier How many times have I turned around on as many malecons to find the corners of your eyes? Scattered paper offerings at our feet. Terns circle a midnight in Iquique; and in Beirut: Muslim schoolgirls hand in hand with midday. Just as birds bearing river mortar return to the eaves in Spring— their dwellings strung high like Kowloon lanterns, so do you return to me always: the sound of your footfall as certain as a jaw settling into itself. You approach with the force of Favelas, high rises, and all the ruins of Rome in your wake—a blue black desert monsoon at your back. And yet, your breath: Jacinta trees in bloom In a Southern Hemisphere Spring.