We spend the day tooling the island
on bikes, scavenging Schnapper’s Red Hots,
watching fishermen in mangrove swamps
and flamingos brooding in trees,
drinking green tea and pomegranate,
seared tuna salad. The afternoon ends
on the beach looking out on the gulf,
big waves lumbering in, parasurfers
circling and dipping from the sky and
skipping across the breakers like slick-skinned
dolphins, the gulf’s blue gives way to green
translucence as the last heave crashes,
entrancing us in a drunkenness
of loneliness and desire unspent,
how can we face the elements
and not walk the shore too unknown
from ourselves, too open from the layers
that we cloak ourselves with? Who here
is not awestruck? Staring at the ancient
couples still cradling hands as they walk
with their trousers rolled? Who does not
lust at the taut bodies running barefoot?
Who does not ache for the child aching?
Who does not wish to warm the shivering
child in their arms?
The sun sets with blood and egg yolk
all smeary across the western gulf.
The shore cools and shallows in dusk
shadow prayer. As we all empty out
we pass the proselytizers
handing out candles at their dug out
weenie and marshmallow roast
preparing for the beach mass,
we hit the bikes and pedal back
through the darkness and the silence,
then drive across the causeway.
Later, from our balcony, we
see the corona of a bonfire
on the far side of the island—
it must be massive, to reach above
the trees and cross the water and
light up the sky like this. A sign?
That some unseen but seen is out there?
That something brighter than the stars
above awaits us? That some great
pagan or sacred ceremony
takes place without our knowing?
Lying awake with the screen door
open we hope for a wisp of
that smoke to cross. It was something
about us, and nothing about us.
Like a poem, we lay arm in arm,
knowing something and not knowing
anything.
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