Sunday, January 4, 2015

san pancho

On the last morning of the trip
the rooster's crow
peck around sand and debris,
a hammer rhythmic with
varying degrees of commitment,
Spanish voices blend with
birds and bass,
thatched palm roof above,
a steeple to blue sky,
vines twist to support us,
driftwood pillars,
a terracotta vase,
eggplant walls and
faded wisteria,
coconuts green and tiny,
their strange spindly stalks,
the rooster's again,
sun moving higher in the sky,
catches my cheek,
splays across this page
like another
unexpected gift.























Then there's the morning
when you know
you've finally slept,
no Mexican polka,
pounding bass,
motorcicletas,
mufflers,
the night was quiet
like the inside of waves,
quiet like your children
in the mornings,
the way they move into you,
full lips and full arms,
they're getting so big,
and day after day you
marvel at not much else,
the sea, perhaps,
a bite of raw fish,
but rally,
it's them,
the way silent freckles
spread slowly across noses,
so soft and light,
the way you can see now
what they'll look like
her ribs and breasts
outlined in slick, pale nylon,
his words and ideas
that form like soft, tropical rain,
a breeze you didn't expect.
We laugh again,
hold hands down hot sand,
race back and forth as
swells build like
the unexpected,
and he pads out.
Snuggle me,
lay with me.
Oh babe.
I love you so much I could explode.
You could only explode yourself wif a bomb.
Or I could just explode inside,
for pretend,
with happiness.  

II.

He's the king of a hidden cave,
his servant, a hermit crab,
moving fast.  They stare intently
at the crevices in rock,
a yellow butterfly flits past
and pelicans with equal parts
effort and calm,
guard the castle,
the boy's voice echoes through
eroded spaces as he
finds the babies and
the baby's babies,
miniature spirals sway softly
if you take the time
to watch.

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