From my journal, June 13th:
Children and pools and a marine layer make
for a fantastic start to a Monday, a body
slowed by sun and sand,
the thrilling realization that all I must do
is right here -- this book and pen, these kids and their shouts,
this sea and her waves,
this is all and I sigh with gratitude because
this is absolutely everything.
During the big storm, mangoes fly from trees,
litter the street like migrating crabs,
like post-party detritus, like golden orbs
open for business, homes to colonies of bees,
to our barefeet and beggar hands.
We scoop them from potholes and cobblestones,
peel back their thin skins and
suck them dry; mangoes gathered in
buckets and bins, mangoes beneath
fallen street lamps, mangos caught
in palm fronds. Long and languid, the trees
are still heavy, luxurious and immediate.
Mamas gather mangoes for
their babies while chickens peck
mango through sticky pulp.
From the window, I watch
the old donkey slip mangoes from the crate,
mango juice drips down his smile,
he bends for another.
Hermit crabs scuttle across the sand
if you watch a bit, you'll see, they're everywhere,
always moving, fast then slow, reminding us
that nothing is as it seems.
Colors of sand and stone, burnt seaweed
white bits of fishbone, the children build them
a school. The ones who don't stay seated
go to detention in the principal's office,
a long, sandy trench. For hours they chase them back,
reprimand them, gather more, little pinchers and
long feelers, so sneaky and restless.
