MEMORY

I forgot the sandy shore, all the men

surfing, strapped to the pterodactyl kites

soaring, the sky menacing, how they knifed

through the water.

I forgot the heat and intense sun, the

bare-bellied white men in gold chains

walking around like the fish boil buffet

with the newly-endowed women, fierce 

and punishing with their medals 

bouncing.

I forgot all the chatter in Russian,

Greek, Portuguese, Dutch, Serbian,

the polyglot of complaint about

cellphones and corndogs, Jose Cuerva,

plantains and the fear of jellyfish.

I forgot the leeside, beyond 

the insect tower lighthouse, no ancient 

marvel, but marveled nonetheless,

the cool afternoon shade as the slow foam 

crept ashore -- the lovers coupling in 

dinosaur bones -- how no one looked us

in the eye, either the desire was too

raw or the murderous rage of loneliness

spread like contagion.

I forgot how green the water was!  How

luxurious the green waves toppled in,

narcotic, deadly, ancient and new-born.

I forgot how we were too tired to pedal on,

too dehydrated to see beyond 

the migraine glare, we stopped at that cafe

and dined on seared tuna and argula, 

a pitcher of lemon water, and all

afternoon we watched the eagles circling

the gulf sky.

I forgot the grouper salad and

the existential surrender of the sea--

laying in bed sweating and listening to

Portuguese Christmas music, Caribbean

holiday favorites, Andy Williams and 

Jimmy Buffet from  the 13th floor,

the languid bay glimmering in one window

and the islands shrinking with the tide

in the other, and the ghost moon, a terror

in the gulf sky.

I forgot the pathetic cries of the osprey

bringing home their fish, how the flopping

weighed them down while I sat in a cabana chair

not really giving a damn for anything

in the world, and then not giving a damn 

about not giving a damn, and how that 

weighed on me, like the fish in the 

osprey's talons--I felt like whimpering!

I forgot reading poems about that newborn

star in Bethlehem, all the fuss about

the skies, the heavens, the portents, 

and all the palm trees, the sand, the pelicans

swooping across the coastline, and the sudden

blast of Neil Diamond from the sailboats

leaving the docks, and the angry German

father who would not hug his chatterchinned 

son because he was desperate to read 

Heinrich Boll and he was exasperated 

that his wife had abandoned them for the sand.

I forgot you sitting naked on the 

balcony on Christmas Eve, how the humid 

night wet your skin and you smelt of butterscotch

as the distant waves crept in and the pelicans

in the mangroves next to the hotel 

muttered in their sleep -- I forgot how

you spooned the She-Crab soup and stared

at the glittering sea and stars as if 

nothing in this world could possibly

save us from all of this.