Forgetting the Hospital

If you remember anything remember
we took turns as poisonwood and gumbo limbo,
the rash burn blister tree and
it’s fraternal twin tree, the antidote,
one oozing tar and other with reddish flaking bark,
side by side in bioactive bliss.
If you forget something forget the missionary in our head.
Forget we had to murder him with a machete,
several swift hacks to the skull like opening a coconut,
meat and juice spilling on the jungle floor.
Thunk thunk thunk and still he refused to die.
Remember how we arrived at the lagoon
to the skip and shimmy of sunlight across the surface
or it penetrated to illuminate the bottom and
all the fish in between and
we asked if this was even real.
Remember, we’re tourists.
Some people see it every day.
Remember it’s a gift to be laughed and sneered at.
Remember to apply sunscreen.
Remember the juice of the pineapple
across your cheek, down your chin,
how the heart was too tough but
we gnawed it anyway chasing sweetness.
Forget how you forgot which tree and, stumbling,
placed your palm on the bark and then
wiping sweat from your forehead,
scratching mosquito bites on your neck,
your hands on me in the hotel room before you washed.

Dustin teaches Spanish and runs a small organization that provides aid to undocumented community in Richmond, Va. His poems appear in Blood and Bourbon, Ligeia, Tilted House, and other magazines.