you're bathed in magnolias and
sun, enjoying the jacarandas
and the seared tuna, the pomegranate tea.
In the pastel blue above and everywhere,
black eagles circle on the updraft.
The family beside you is
Mediterranean, or "Middle Eastern,"
they explode syllables into their cells,
brag of "shelling" and "Florida."
It's the day after some refugee
set himself aflame like some
conscientious monk, a jihad botched
midflight to ecstasy.
The family under the jacaranda
cannot translate their desire,
they want spinach pie and something
done well and everything on the side.
Their little girl in pink shoes doesn't speak.
She sings every word she hears, and dances
in ecstasy, flamingo flamingo flamingo!
The grandfather, gray haired and
fierce, spies as you write down these notes.
You are American. He doesn't know
that you're writing a poem. He suspects
you watching him, keeping tabs, and
you are, but it's the beauty
that you cannot capture. Your eyes
meet when you sign the bill.
You keep writing these notes,
jacaranda, Mediterranean,
lavender dust, ecstasy,
how the eagles circle lazily,
the honeyed taste of pomegranate
on your lips, the little girl
in pink shoes twirling among
the patio chairs and singing
flamingo. When she tumbles, he
retrieves her from the lavender
flowers he pauses to glare -- is he
hostile? embarrassed? self-conscious?
You smile at the girl's pink shoes
and flamingo song, relieved
to leave this incident, this tableau,
this menacing lexicon, this
delicate beauty.
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