A foreigner disguised as a native,
I take in the beauty of the scenery
captured in pictures by tourists before me,
my hands grip the bulging sides of the purse
that hangs heavy over my shoulder—
heavy from the ungiven soles that clatter
against each other in sync to the clapping
hands of happy tourists to music
that will never reach the ears of the small boy
with cupped hands who’s begging
I dismissed the first day I arrived
in this strange beautiful land.
Government palace at the Plaza de Armas in Lima, Peru.
A foreigner disguised as a native,
they take in my long dark hair
that frames my tan skin and think—
she is one of us. Someday. But for now,
I admire the historic buildings,
the cobble stone streets, the dog wearing
a sweater with matching shoes, and the beautiful
bridge that crosses over into dusty foot trodden
paths that lead to the towering mountain
with the cross that overlooks the shanty towns,
the dog wearing his skin tightly over his bones,
and the begging boy with his hungry family.
Beautiful cobble streets that lead to historic buildings and shops around the area.
A view of the mountain landscape against the gorgeous historic buildings.
They overlook—I imagine—the distant
glittering city of Lima and the place
where I stand opposite the beautiful bridge
that separates the us from them,
the rich and poor,
and the foreigners from the true natives.
The bridge that crosses over from the Plaza de Armas to the shanty towns and mountains beyond.
