Pretty, pretty Filipina had straight hair

and a bad upbringing.

She had fertile effervescence.

She knew how to smile and talk,

and she knew how to shake it, taut like

a dodgeball.

She sketched funny pictures with her warm hands.

She liked vinyl booths, tiny bites,

sugar packets, and seedy bars.

She liked Couture and Manolo Blahniks and Sass.

She liked those things. She did.

But mostly, she liked to tie off her arm and dream.

Did you sense my emergence, good beak,

A gloopy shell dragging egg slime and sand.

To the waiting spume.

With clammy innards, I lumbered.

Under a morose sun

While you pecked my indifferent

Eyes to nourish your blood disease.

Adieu, good beak, it was mine to be

Momentary.

Not to return, she left her pail

Upon the glistening sand.

Then, crashed into a mighty break,

with all its dazzling spray.

Then, hearing father's voice call out,

she hastened back for shore. But riptide

Bound, she found herself beyond the

Coral edges. Where sharks will

Glide and paint the foam far from

Beachgoers blankets while seabirds

Circled o're the fray, bearing witness to

Her summer's day.

There is a pond in my backyard.

Its waters have no sparkle,
or Koi and I fret over its mucky
bottom as it burps up fleets of
late summer algae blooms that
cling to its edges.

The creatures there would gladly
seize me; were I to misstep, skidding
on elbows into their murk, where
the snappers are large, languid,
and hell-bent on destroying me.

But how was I to know—

You see, I’d crushed their old comrade while
maneuvering that blasted truck through the
high grass in surrounding fields.

The snappers hate me no less for this admission.

Meanwhile:

The cattails sway in the breeze.

The heron steps in the shallows

The blackbirds weave their nests.

A muskrat lingers in a hole in the bank.

A rabbit crouches and shivers while

The weasel waits on its chance.

And it was six months later, I discovered
his broken shell lying pressed to the ground.

I thought it strange before realizing it was
I who’d stolen his days in the sun. I’d see
him no longer on his sunning stones.

But how was I to know—

I’m better when you do not

Imagine me an honorable man.

You, with your breeding, your

alpine beauty and pluck,

are symphonically designed.

And I ... nothing better than a rat.

Yesterday -- in Reykjavik -- the wind

Put pink in your porcelain features.

Today, you’ve dressed in assortments:

Flashbulb smiles, bluest silks, and

Embroidered Lotus flowers.

Tomorrow, you’ll forget me.