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It’s morning. I’m sitting
on a porch, or a hammock, or a log, basking
in the sun’s white light. My pupils—pin dot
trying to see through all that’s around
my hair is sticky, all tangled, I’m wearing last night’s
tank top. I’m smoking my day’s first stick while waiting for you to wake up.
We live in a hut, a tiny cottage, or a makeshift house,
it can be anywhere, but there is a beach nearby.
Our kitchen is a mess. Peels of vegetables, empty bottles, plates and glasses
we only wash when we need them.
I hear the door shudder, and you come out—
look for a cig, and ask for the time, I say we don’t have a clock.
Between our puffs, we don’t need to speak. We stare at the sky,
pick at my chipped nail polish, wonder what’s wrong with the faucet,
search for something to read—we’ve been doing this,
this doing nothing—for quite some time, taking menial jobs to get by.
But we live in Paradise—
a stranger to us. No one speaks our native tongues.
Away from our cities, from everyone we know,
from everything that we were before.
We have little but we have all— the sun, waves, mountains,
and a bed fit for two.
Then you say, let’s get married. I ask, today?
and you answer, Yes