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.