Lovebirds<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The sun was hot, the wind calm, the sea
\nspectacularly blue.<\/p>\n
I am not a tourist on this island
\ndrawn to the center of action,
\nthe center stage where hula dancers sway.<\/p>\n
I\u2019ve come for the edges, a rocky rim
\nover a black sand beach, colossal leaves
\ncupping tiny red fruit.<\/p>\n
And to meet my friend\u2019s fiancee<\/p>\n
who cuts three mangos down with a knife
\n(\u201ca man with a knife instead of an iPhone?\u201d
\nI whispered to Amira, \u201chow manly is this?\u201d)
\nand, minutes later, sitting cross-legged on sand,
\nwe tore through the reddish-green skin,
\njuice dripping down our arms.<\/p>\n
We swam and walked and swam
\nsome more and I don\u2019t remember every detail
\nabout our sun drenched afternoon
\nbut I do remember how the wind came up
\nand blew the lid off Kaila\u2019s cooler,
\nthe sand sharp as glass against our cheeks,
\nand how Amira\u2019s face remained calm,
\nunfazed, and I remember thinking
\nshe looked a decade younger than the year before
\nand how this seemed perfectly natural
\nand fitting.<\/p>\n
I remember she smelled of coconut oil
\nand Kaila smelled of beer, his breath yeasty.<\/p>\n
I remember Kaila running up to the truck, opening the door for us.
\nI remember his strong, hairy forearm held Amira close.
\nI remember Amira winked, reached for the top of my hand
\nto give a little squeeze, huge
\nin meaning, though.<\/p>\n
I remember she mouthed the word, lovebirds.<\/p>\n
And, oh, how I wanted to believe in that word.
\nI wanted to believe that Amira may have fallen,
\nbut Alika had caught her. I wanted to believe
\nhe was a man capable of such a catch.<\/p>\n
I stared at the two of them. I pretended not to.
\nI stared some more.<\/p>\n
I had this thought that things were going to turn out
\n\u201cjust fine.\u201d<\/p>\n
If \u201cjust fine\u201d was a man dressed in board shorts and slippahs,
\nwho cared what happened to Amira,
\nwho would give her a sense of home in his little house in Kailua.<\/p>\n
I hoped for a man who would not just open our door
\nbut his\u2014I am looking for a better word here, but there is none\u2014heart.<\/p>\n
Naturally I heard every other thing I said to myself: \u201cAlika?
\nDon\u2019t kid yourself. Men like him open only their zippahs.
\nDon\u2019t let his adorable cottage draped in bougainvillea
\nfool you otherwise.\u201d<\/p>\n
I countered: \u201cMainland pessimist!
\nI am fed up listening to you.\u201d<\/p>\n
I remember after that exchange
\nthere was a somewhat strained atmosphere in the truck.<\/p>\n
If only in my seat.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Mary Lou Sanelli\u00a0<\/a>is \u00a0the author of seven poetry collections<\/a> and a recent book of essays,Falling Awake<\/em>, selected as “one of the most fabulous 2008 Northwest titles” by Seattle writer\/reviewer Lesley Thomas.\u00a0Among Friends<\/em>:\u00a0A Memoir<\/em>\u00a0was\u00a0a bookclub choice throughout the country. She is a regular columnist in\u00a0City Living Magazine<\/em>\u00a0for Seattle’s Pacific Publishing Newspapers, as well as for\u00a0Art Access Magazine,<\/em>\u00a0and her commentaries have been aired on\u00a0Weekend Edition and<\/em>\u00a0NPR.\u00a0She presents her staged reading of her book of the same name,\u00a0The Immigrant’s Table<\/em>, throughout the country.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Lovebirds The sun was hot, the wind calm, the sea spectacularly blue. I am not a tourist on this island drawn to the center of action, the center stage where hula dancers sway. I\u2019ve come for the edges, a … Continue reading