Baracoa 2018

the pierced blue sea

rolled away from its wounds

each morning. fresh coffee.

rolls. mango. guava juice.

soft fried eggs in the sun.

we meandered through a 

brown stone valley. almond. pistachio.

blue crabs in the shadows.

she spoke the language.

i did not. in the crazy sun, sweat

draped over us like shade.

paddling in our rowboat,

skin singing at every touch,

we may never have been so in love.

it was as if all life could spill from us there

in those rich green waters.

that night, storms. hotblooded

thunder and screams. her anger,

the inferno that ate the light 

of the stars. we are all

we had, at least for me.

i did not speak the language.

when the madness broke,

we made love with the fans whirring,

thin sheets caught in our legs,

the world holding its breath in the heat.

nothing combustible remained.

when she left, i caught a fever

and didn’t eat for days.

i dreamed of a serpent without end,

tongue of fire and skin melting

to cover the world in the scaled texture

of glass. on my final day,

i wandered through a dissolving city,

filled my lungs with smoke

and came to a huge white cross on a hill.

alone then, i sat 

anonymous and happy for a time.

but when i returned to the states, 

i was nauseated, weak.

we began again to plant seeds,

again to lose them in the great rains.

it was years before i was done

with the sweat and salt,

the heat and thunder,

and could travel,

taste sweet juices, sing

in the sun, melancholy now,

without language,

cradling a wound for which

i still seek the sea.