The Boundless
Angela - he said - don't drive so fast. I want
to watch the water-born boys on the gravel, parallel
to the sea, offer tourists pistachios, oranges, peppers,
sell mock Cartier watches with a fly ticking the minutes.
I want to see this face, these legs and rocks --the girls
dripping water from breasts, drops on nipples,
the seller's face flush as he lowers the basketful
of chilled drinks to his waist. - Step on the breaks.
Take me a picture. No, not near this woman made up
like a Mokambo dancer in sequined bikini. Frame me
as I lean on the rock where the surf thrust, forged
you, Venus, head haired with foam, arms cut
by tussle. See? Behind me, the azure expanse shimmers -
a lover who embraces without holding.
* * * *
Desparecida
She disappeared, left her gloves
on the table -- two hands
with swollen fingers
filled with endurance.
Between quiet hands, her children
place the laced mantilleja,
a steamy cup of coffee
and a key.
They do it every day
aware that gloves can slide
out of manacles.
* * * *
No Longer Indivisible
At night, no matter how she moves,
rubber shoed or barefoot,
creaks are heard -- a branch-break,
a mirror-split or windowpane-crash
and cracked footsteps
that are not hers.
Looking behind, between fissures,
her face flashes dimly fragmented --
And all she's ever wanted
was to be clear, whole.
* * * *
Waterfront People
Bikini dunes, gold-glowed curves rise
from beds of shells and sand
as the waterfront spangles rocks
with silver sequins.
But the fishermen do not care about skin
tapestry, they yell
to companions, pull nets
against the checkered air.
Their women, dressed in terracotta skirts and shawls,
sit on rock splinters, lower eyelids,
fade behind wrinkles dug by the sun
and waiting, shrug at their children
who, with translucent cheekbones, leap
into the world like fish into the net.
* * * * *
(c) Paula Grenside, 2002