Key West, Florida, 1995
Blue striped geckos lose their tails independently wiggling bodies,
tree frogs in the deep dark well at the end of Passover lane,
browned grass baked dead by the sun's relentless attention,
an uncompromising lover. We want green, how it withers &
shrivels & dies, three times over & sticky anemones
beneath the pier, urchins & sea cows in clouds of purple ink.
Portuguese Man-Of-War float far out barracudas & clownfish & brain coral.
The cemetery across the street we play in
forts constructed on headstones stomping carelessly unaware of death,
instinctively we shy away from small graves.
& how we adore big fat drops of water,
running down soggy streets to jump in puddles
feeling wet & cool on our feet, thinking the whole world lives,
barefoot & sweating & half-clothed & wild.
& coconuts split open by machete
white & bitter, milk not milk to us
but the ocean which surrounds us--
keeps us here, thick mangroves imprison us,
one highway stretches down to this place,
heaven, where tourists flock rejoicing in white sand,
lemon sharks lay close to shore,
Cuba ninety miles by raft.
Rejects, idealists,
junkies, wanderers,
settling here with tattoos
& tie dyed t-shirts, scarred arms
& long hair & towels for clothes,
my father & our house with screens
& mismatched wood, my mother, her guitar
our home, is no home for children & young minds,
we watch the island beyond our latched wooden gate,
keeping them out, and us in, laying beneath slow moving fans,
taking refuge in the scent of jasmine the curl of bougainvillea
& the yellow center of frangipani--the softness of hibiscus petals.
