" Chichina "
In Miramar, sand crabs play
at love, approach it sideways—
pretend there is no pinch
to its ebb and flow.
Che planned to stay two nights,
stayed eight. His friend, Alberto,
saw the danger. I thought of Che
alone on the highways and back roads
of America. Some jibaro jungles
are filled with experts at hunting
and shrinking heads.
I didn’t want my love
to wind up on the shelf of a Yankee
museum, eyes hard and dry,
like mouse turds after winter.
Che says the commandment
for a good explorer is: an expedition
has two points; the point of departure
and the point of arrival.
We cook each night over a beach fire.
While we break the legs off crabs
suck their sweet juices, life
dribbling down our chins—
I believe we have arrived.
We have taken hold
of this ebb and flow.
Those nights I rage against him
for leaving me, leaving me
as the moon becomes dark and distant,
I think we are already gone.
Our passion is warm
on my thighs. This is life too,
I think, putting a finger inside
where he has been
to see how we taste.
Gulls scavenge broken pieces of shell.
We are not sure if tomorrow he will choose
to go on. The night will be the same
but not the same. He and I, different,
and alone.
We will lose ourselves. What we have
been to each other, just like the waning
moon. The universe shaves it smaller.
An incantation.
Night peeling memory
slice by succulent slice.
© 2004 Laurie Byro
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