You look so familiar under the brim,
sun-warmed straw hat,
Panama Blue, foamed
white clouds, nothing but

Tan sand warm,
cinnamon, toast.
Sweet samba,
how you walk!
Swept, spectacular buttocks,
on the upswing,

You can never have enough limes:
repeat that three times.
I’ll wait . . .

I cut you off at the sink,
and we dance a quick
1-2 and
end in a kiss
to punctuate the up-beat,
the turnaround.

You break, your own time,
to whirl barefoot
on terracotta,
snap you fingers, close your eyes,
shake, rattle, roll,
in private, pondering,
your own reverie.

I gulp big palmfuls
of healing water,
cold ladles of quenching, drench
over parched tongue,
lips and palette.

I twirl you
in white rooms,
underneath silks,
wound up like a top,
in emerald,
teal and rose.

I pull your puffy lips
with my own, release,
they snap back,
emboldened, laden with
blood, alive.

Your frame,
head through neck,
wriggly shoulders,
down the curve of sides,
meringue hips.

Swing, long body!
In the wind, in the night,
lean and pose,
poise, stretch
tight, grace,
ease into a self-arc.

You are a time from before,
you bring me back
to salty winds,
high spires in glare,
too bright
to bear.

Surf, roll over me,
endless slow shoosh
of shaving cream
echoes, royal.

You, like a shark,
swimming the surface,
under deep violet skies.

Cutting your arms
in perfect vees,
all along the waterlne.

as if floating on air.

© Carlos Chagall, 2013