I can’t write today. Your pain is my pain. My neck feels soft. You wash the dishes—you get hard easily. Leaves everywhere. Andrea moves through the house. I let her. The Salvadorian Revolution was extreme, a laboratory of the Cold War. I bite my lips. I wash the dishes. Impatient you—you sleep in the back room. My brother never calls. I know poverty can be scary, too many people in this city. They send weapons to Central America. Racist country, we know this. I can’t write today, or listen. The leaves outside are telling me something.