romanza iberia

The sun drips like slow honey,
     matting tangled hair.
     Sweet and salt,
     It melts them.
This is life—this is freedom.
     The waves, in which
     they splashed passion,
     bob and weave.
Churning insides occupied
     when the muse knocks
     as she fries the day’s catch.

Her steps move outside—
     Starboard—
     A hazy rat-race effigy
     along la Costa del Sol.
She stares, inconclusive.
     Sighing a lifetime
     as he approaches, steps erratic,
     sipping on a cigarette.
               
Potent ale yields daily atrophy.

He is yelling ---
     of the untended fish,
     in rolling R’s and
     serpent phonics.

Today, she does not hear the slurred, broken English,
     nor see his nakedness and leather soles slapping the deck.
     The waves swell, breathing on her ear.     
          
     That smell!
The stove,
     which, like the fish, now sits
     charred, black and brittle.

On port, she purges
     the fish, his words, her self.
They all flutter Hell-ward,
     falling in with the seaweed.