No word from the peripatetic pair.
I assume they are squirreled away in the hold of a cargo ship bound for a life of white slavery in Shanghai, or too busy to write.
In the meantime, from the August issue of Poetry Magazine:
Skin Teeth
One good Friday night I come home-
tired bad-and I canÃt find me children
or me husband. The house quiet like somebody dead.
I call up he best friend. He say the children
wid the woman up the road, but he donÃt know where
they father be.
Or maybe he just donÃt want to tell me.
So I jump in me car and drive up Monkey Hill.
I gon catch him, the bastard. I park behind he jeep
and take me blessed time an let the air
our of one–two–three tires.
Then I walk in the stupid lickle rum shop
as if is me who lay down the foundation
and is me who pay the rent. And I see him
holding some girl hand. Laughing like the world canÃt end.
As soon as the little squeng see me
she up like she ready for war.
But I is a big woman–canÃt bodda fight
wid pickney who donÃt understand what is mine is mine,
I smile broad wid alla them.
Then I pour he drink over he head, and tell him never
leave me children with nobody again.
Neisha Tweed
the mom of the other one
My theory is there’s less computer access from San Juan del Sur than from Managua and that there was a lot (fun) to do once the vomiting stopped … if the vomiting stopped.