Treasure Island

L C Vieira

(Lisbon, Portugal)

Magic Scarves

You climb my tower of waiting words,
your well-worn knees,
with new hands smoothing
whatever careless wrinkle
slows your pace of pleasure.

Salvador Dali left his tower
of silver spoons high as his ceiling.
I leave you messages on a breast
to welcome you there inside.
Your fashioned fingers disappear
as my mouth calls to you, 'Dive in! '

Drunken Eros waits,
his gift for our new journey,
weaving words with mine to lead you
in this wind, this shaking wind
across another darkest ocean.

Tossed, we are still far from bed,
Dali, he waits; we step inside.
Remember the one we saw in water -
in the museum back in Madrid?
There was that film, we watched and shared.
to dream of our own
dance dance dance
somewhere in someone else's water.

She had her scarves,
just one, then more,
bright colors rising from the sand.
She pulled and pulled as if with magic,
so much they seemed as if we must
be next in line in that same story.

How far we've come from broken shells
and salty waves that knock us down.
New oceans warmly wish to rock us.
Fresh tropics play in traveled hair,
yet still beneath those tidy tables,
where every care is in each garnish,

our magic scarves are in our nails -
those nails that hide our little secrets
of messy nights and long lost laundry,
things brushed together,
remembrances fresh -
so many nights and new tomorrows.

(2004, Revised 2012)

Submitted: Thursday, March 15, 2012
Edited: Friday, July 26, 2013

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