|photo by Ik T|
I find him in the jungle among the fronds, discarded
from palms - their gnarly trunks crooked as spines
& he is on his knees
in a white button up shirt w/ blue collar,
yet to be stained with grease from a pump filling the pool
for hundreds of smiling tourists, from New York,
Greece, Nebraska, old Russian states, I can not pronounce,
a mix of accents rich with promise ---
all still currently
He is Cuban,
and his "r's" roll like waves kids jump & squeal
as their mother takes pictures.
I am looking for coconuts,
storm gods sent Earth-ward last night.
You have to be early or the black birds will beat you
pecking holes deep through the husk, cracking the nut,
to drink deep the milk
& he is
building Machu Pichu,
sand piled high, & torn grass, old shells, a trashed cup,
2 pop tops, turned over as the eyes
which are really
only reflections of the sky
"I make it like ---"
&does his hands like steps
"---you ever seen it?"
not in real life."
"I see it in a movie once. So beautiful."
Every morning he rebuilds it,
at his first break,
while all the others get coffee.
It's in the cup of his hand
against the moist grit,
the shape. He can't help,
having touched the power of creating something
He knows where all the bodies are buried,
I want to tell him there are sacred places
where the light hits
just right. He uses leaves for turf. There is
a tremble. We ignore, we embrace,
in the silence of never
quite alone ---
our broken English & interchangeable syllables
is the reason our necks hurt
at the Sistine Chapel ceiling, on the shoulders
is what I feel
as the vowels of your name christen my lips
& history replays,
a movie cast on a fluttering sheet,