by Dov Weinman
sun-touched men bearing the
marks of their work and lines of
their age set boats out into dawn’s
humid breath before even the
dressed in blue robes, stirs from
silent watch upon cement-wall altar.
sunlight breaks through water’s
stained glass painting the blue
cathedral’s soft floor. the front
of their wooden skiffs bob up and
down in prayer as the fishermen
kneel at their benches pulling motors.
religion will live and die here,
history drawn in sand erased with
high tide, the sacred no longer found
on the lips of priests, but instead soft
confessions meet their judgment
with the rising and falling of each
wave, it is found knotted in the
fishermens’ nets, and printed upon
the tired hands that work them.
Storm in Sections
for that great storm
hear and see the rise
of the toiling surf
and the agitated winds
flutters of expectation
with uncertain heart
waiting and anxious
sky and earth raging
fury fed emptiness
and iron kisses,
saplings bend sideways
ripped by the roots
into hurricane winds
burning sorrow is
a letter in your hand
the hopeful youth
the dangerous ones
relief at their own
hovering over san miguel beers,
with sweat beading around the side
of cigarette stained mustaches and
bloodshot eyes scanning the ocean.
ancient white men, mostly left over
from the army, puddling in plastic
white chairs, slowly fermenting
in place and waiting for either death
or to be led by a small dark hand
into a dimly lit room. some stale
mattresses tossed on the floor,
music jacked up to keep sounds
from escaping into the street.
it’s not a vending machine you assholes.
hey man lower your voice.
fuck my voice she’s like 14.
okay okay just shut up.
i’m just yelling, what’s your psychosis?
you know they pulled funding for sexual health, condoms?
there’s a fucking AIDS epidemic.
a quick spray of cheap perfume,
a listerine mouthwash, another
fumbling hand groping for breasts
that haven’t developed yet, water-
damaged wallpaper blisters and
cracks, and delicate lips mouth
the words take me away from here.