Vispera (Eve of Saint John)


The summer I never learned how to swim

became the city I fled to

by the sea. Now, I said & scurried


with sand-scorch under my feet,

through the urge to turn back

for home. I landed a towel over


tamped mounds of beach & slept,

never asking the tide why

I was unable to want one thing


at a time. I said now into the ear

of a girl named Fifika, now to my hands

& she opened up her knees.


At times I dreamt a scythe swept over me

& woke to dissolved castles

& vacant parasols. A familiar voice


is what I yearned for, but that summer

I hung every phone back up.

When Vispera de San Juan came


with fire leaping, scarred guitars,

& pots of house sangia,

the never-learning changed.


At midnight I ripped three wishes

from a spiral & joined the rush

towards the sea, leapt and tossed the pages


over the first waves. Who knows why,

when everyone else turned back

to find their lover, I kept going–


into the deeper sea where my feet hovered

& no one would hear a scream,

where the constellated shore


glowed a vast vigil to only me.