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.


Copyright © Ramón E. Martinez, 2005.  All Rights Reserved. √