Steel drums & rhythm—your pulse into
mine. Thighs. Brown eyes. Small, small
lies. How about—? –Yes, there. The story
line is also the horizon, the sun’s departure
a green flash plunging into sea. Bodies
no longer islands. Our voices the same.
Whisper. Pidgin. Toes on the nose, ocean
beneath. Veins hard, branches spreading,
flowers, arms, legs. Rivers. Our breath is
water, tropical skies. Mangoes. Music like
tin roofs, rain, the quiet that comes. Surge of surf
in the distance, crashing into sand, again, again, again.