I haven’t shaved in a week,
and I haven’t showered for half that time,
but that’s OK,
because salt water is good for the skin,
and all I’ve worn in the last two days
is a pair of boxer briefs
sufficing as swim trunks, and God
I’ve got dried sand
in my eyebrows
and sunburns where Lisa’s fingers
couldn’t reach in time
before I’m off
swimming in the surf,
bringing back dead jellyfish and seashells
to drop at her feet
so she’ll tend to my cuts
and bruises with clicks of her tongue
before I’m off again,
promising not to get sand in the bed tonight
and to be back before dinner, and if I’m late
it’s the currents, and if am early
it’s because I am hungry, either way
she’ll be there
in dark sunglasses
hips folded like a book
on her beach towel, wondering
who is this grubby boy
playing in the surf
and how much ransom
will she need
to get her man back.
copyright 2005 Rocco de Giacomo
As appeared in magma poetry, 39, Winter 2007/2008,
and the collection Leaning into the Mountain (Fooliar Press, Toronto)