The anthropologist wanted to share a family story
he wrote about potters in Chulucanas, in a valley in Peru,
two days away from home. I sent pocket money
to Juan Pablo, he says before I ask what it meant
to Juan Pablo’s father for his family to appear in a book
that was short-listed, won prizes. And what is it like
for the anthropologist to love another man’s son,
like a nephew, or a neighbor’s child, only to study him
too, and expose the family’s modest wealth from their workshop?
Now Juan Pablo is in college, in Lima, encouraged by a doctor
of philosophy. Cultural anthropology. We both study humans,
I say, but he waves his hand, shakes his head. Pours us more wine.
I’m drawn to decades-long research. His words: a gauntlet?
Why can’t I put on paper what I offer in gesture: a handshake,
hug, or kiss. When we touch, or if we touch, intentional or
accidental, then I know: love, acquaintance, stranger.