Glass Poetry Press

Volume Three Issue Two

John C. Mannone

The Pines of Maunabo

drape their branches as lace. The island's volcano sand shines its carbon black minerals glittering in the pine-scented sun — the same way, your hair. Or is its sheen like onyx, so black it purples the raven's wing? Perhaps more so the intoxicating beauty of rare black coral, the wet sheen of its strands draping the sheer face plummeting through turquoise piercing raptured depths. I am drunk with the smell of your hair. Palms and gardenia. The soft wisp of your caramel cheeks. And your eyes whisper that hint of hazel in aquamarine — Caribbean Sea kissing the blue muted sky.