Fishing
Hector stands on the water,
thinking of Carmella,
who never quite came back.
She could pick a strawberry like
Segovia fixing harmonics.
She loved him, but only once.
He arrives at the pier,
ties his board to a piling and
climbs to his favorite table.
Carmella brings him a smile in
the shape of a rhombus,
a chowder that verges on majesty.
She says, Ask the question.
He says, Ever?
She says, No. Never.
Hector thinks back a tear.
Why do you do this?
She sets her hands on
his java shoulders.
On a night when the
moon was one-third gone,
three men took my youth.
My only sweetness is
telling you no.
He traces the outline of her
blood-red lips. In that case,
I will take the chowder.
The rhombus widens out to
one third of a moon.
A pelican bombs the harbor,
comes up empty.
Hector says,
Yes, it’s like that.
From the collection Fields of Satchmo
First published in Skidrow Penthouse, New York City
Photo by MJV
No comments:
Post a Comment