ESMERALDA

Your whole life, Esmeralda, by the sea,
interpreting the world for better,
for worse: better perhaps for growing up in the shadow
of a volcano, and taking up study of how oxygen masks
drop like holy roses when aircraft cabins suddenly
lose pressure...

Your tears are a scattering of gold sand dollars
valuable at low tide, depending on the moon's whimsy,
yet wealthy. You string your hammock between two
Spanish cannons on the cabana porch, and use
a pine coffin to hold a cumuli of marbles.

This is your story, Esmeralda, how you descended from
the sky and took pity on the beachcomers who had buckets
but no saint. You listen to their prayers. breathe
over candles in garrish jars, hibiscus wreaths,
letters from old lovers.

Killers whales are bound for Baja:
storms harvest the sea.