Postcard From Manzanillo
Michelle Hall Kells
Living things don't all require
light in the same degree, but I am here
where the fronds, thick and unabashed,
swing like the heavy hips of mangos, erratic
as a mariachi band. No escape
the unbearable glare, the glow of midnight
radiant on sun-baked stone. Imagine
lamium trailing over cool rock and loam, the dark
misty places it craves when I am home.
Tangled in trellis, reading the subtle
white light of morning. Against this place
where plumeria and hibiscus drape
loud and violent, red sandle points
press into my in-step and beg to dance
on the patio where there is no dawn, only the yellow
and magenta in my head.
