I want to return to that beach, garbage strewn, feigning
privacy. The dirt road we drove, crooked like the cattle
spine we found, jumble of twisted vertebrae. Thin palms exposed
our naked bodies to tourists (like us) intent on the same rutted out
lane,
this sacred atmosphere of make-believe. I love dead-ends,
roads that lead to stony-faced lizards. The abandoned lighthouse,
though we couldn’t find a way inside. Smooth sealed body,
cinder cool in our hands. We sought shade beneath that giant pillar,
wondered at the potted aloe in a small pool
of smashed glass. The cicadas sang mercifully. Cried for us
to stop arguing and enjoy the view (eventually, we did). Afraid of
coral depths, I stayed
shallow. Watched your back, supple, propel through constellation
pinpricks,
the water’s reaching hand. Suspended, I grasped at rock, the
volcano’s
bleached bone surrender to sea. We watched the terns cackle and
dive,
each timed and hurtled swell.
