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.