Šibenik

Triumphant approach after accidental highway through the hinterlands. Behold the quiet town, shimmering mirrored in the harbor.

Should we have come at daybreak? No: Šibenik’s stone streets are mute orange magic by lamplight.

Doors stand wide open. Ventilation trumps lock and key in the tiny town. Childishly tempted, we “break in” to an apartment building.

Plants in odd architectural corners of the stairwell. Our feet and mouths try to whisper. We reach an apex beyond which there are only locked storage spaces. Disappointed by the lack of roof access, our investigation yields no light bulbs, no reason to pick locks. The nudged rat poison lingers on his fingers as he touches my hair. He apologizes but I’m unconcerned.

We climb over fence and crumbled wall to make shadow puppets in a wrecked fortress. He’d like to steal the flag, but it is padlocked to the pole. Red lights blink in a triangular cemetery below. We contemplate death dates on temporary tombstones bearing the same surname.

Shall we? We nod to each other, sleepy, but a pontoon juts into the harbor: an invitation. I disrobe first, rapidly. The girls follow, orbs of pale flesh softly orange before slipping into the glittering black.

Adriatic silk on nymphean skin. We shout and laugh, calling into the dark. We hush, silent to meet the exigent still of perfectly doubled boats on water. We splash and swim and finally shiver, waiting selfishly for towels.

#12/30 "Barbecue Lolita"

Where is she?

You bring her out here

butt-naked,

the cellulite-less and

marinated ingénue,

that overgrown Lolita;

bring her out to this sour lawn

lit goldenrod under the weary sun,

fastidiously groomed, her

beef-hunk edges glistening

before our barbecue.

Assure her of the red-blooded

American instincts

and earnestness that drive us

over these trailer-rusted prairies

to find necks

and pairs of knees

like hers.

Though ravenous,

we hope she’ll unfold glossy

like a magazine, butterflied

into many thin filets upon our laps;

she could also cleave apart like

mica: insulation for our impulses.

Perhaps we seem

extravagant.

If she trembles,

clinging to her roll top desk,

just bring her

neat and tender.

Damn gloss if she isn’t soft:

our teeth have rotted on the road

and none of us is ready

for a filthy, fighting meal.

No, don’t tell us about

sisters, or a mother. We’re here

for the particular marble in

her skin, the mercury run of

her blood, those knees

and that neck’s submission.

She says she’s lost

her patriotic instinct?

Nonsense. We’ve got it right

here, in the back of the van

and heel of my boot,

in the buckles at our waists

and under each man’s fingernails.

We’ve got it to spare

and spread

over her like butter

before we pop her

on that grill.

Enough. We’ve starved

on this lawn too long.

We won’t wait. Dismantle her

and slap her roadmap veins

splayed continental under

that cloud-cover skin

into our palms.

We’ll chart

our own

path home.