Archipelagic
By R.A. Villanueva
Not vinegar. Not acid. Not
sugarcane pressed to mortar by
fist, but salt: salt, the home taste; salt,
the tide; salt, the blood. Not Holy
Ghost, but a saint of coral come
to life in the night crossing a
field of brambles and thorns, the camps
of pirates beat back to the bay
with hornets. Not Santo Niño.
And not a belt of storms, but this:
girls singing, an avocado
in each open palm, courting doves;
a moth drawn to the light of our
room you take to be your father.
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I had to get up early Monday to get the bathroom inspected by repair people, so I am sleepy now. My day was mostly chores anyway: laundry, online shopping, organizing some stuff in the kitchen. My mom stopped by on her way home from lunch with friends, and I talked to a neighbor for a while.
After dinner we watched Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides, my least favorite of the five films -- we go from a trilogy that centers on a girl who wants to be a pirate to one that's all about men and their expectations of women, even mermaids. From Fallsmead Park on Sunday:
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