The Caribbean Writer


Mary Kate Azcuy


The little propeller plane takes off on a sand bar,
dredged, pounded down chalky, white sand,
mixed with skeletons, shells hardened to cement;
this is our graveyard ascent.

The azure, seafoam, keyhole waters migrate—
in a blue-green-pale-white ballet, a ceaseless swaying
that is in harmony with the sea’s dependable moon.

Red and green firecracker plants, proboscis tubes,
and yellow flaming tongues of life hang onto the flowered
shrubs at the sandy exit from the sea.

Palms sit centered on this stage,
where brown jumping spiders live without webs,
freelancers who devour their prey,
below them cunning sand mounds hide biting,
red fire ants.

The seashell-filled waters have been picked over.
As the sun descends off the ledge of the world
and closes its orange/pink eye in tears—
the shadows swim, tails directing
baby lemon sharks, six-foot tigers, hammer heads.

Screw pines’ crooked trunks grow like giraffe necks,
enormous palm leaves and giant pine cone fruits, bend
in orchestration with the hiding light.

The sapphire sea combs across the sandy beach
leaving little trademark ripples of seeded beds.
Slowly like the arms of a sun-warmed lover
each wave moves back and forth;
the air moves lightly and the breath of all is.

The sun rests, life clatters, and the sinking eye
closes into its sea of tears.
Descending, a lost immigrant,
I hold to the image for a brief moment

Copyright © Mary Kate Azcuy

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