sundress, saturday (draft)

I’m hanging curtains on a Saturday in a sundress.  White dress and red curtain.   A lover’s on my mind and succulent.   For a second, probably because of my perch, I think of the termite nests stashed high in the jungle trees.  And the stench of mangroves.  And how the jungles by the beaches look like the ocean has splashed over them and scattered it’s debris.  Glaciers leave rocks behind–balanced on cliffs, strewn on desert floors–with the same randomness. It’s like the giants of the dusty earth are playing marbles.  And the ocean rolls back after kissing the jungle and leaves a whole bay well lit at midnight. And suddenly, there I am, in a warm Caribbean bikini, lazy.  The kayak bounces and my rower doesn’t move when I lie back on his feet and stare straight up.  A plain old sky, caked with stars.  My desire is my secret.  Just between me and the stars and the lit bay and a whole slew of memories of times I wanted to reach out.  But. Back to this Saturday.  And this sundress, very white against my dark legs. And this window, eons from a jungle and a sleepy lover under netting and a mango. It all works. Somehow.