The Police Call It Paradise by Margaret A. Robinson
i
Map
Keep going, leave North and
East behind like a too-tight shirt.
You’ll make it, travel
West where many tufts
Erupt in green water, so far
South you can smell Fidel’s cigar.
The next stop, Havana.
ii
Arrival
On the bus, a lame man
gives up his seat
Pony-tailed Harley riders
let pedestrians cross
Ficus weaves a glossy hedge
Sidewalk kitty chow fills plastic dishes
Ecru bottle-brushes - sansevieria in bloom
Bougainvillea swishes
on a chaste picket fence
iii
732 Olivia Street
A mildewed stone wall, bromeliad
flower overhead. A powder-blue gate.
The metal numbers have fallen off,
732 showing white like a watch strap
mark on a tanned wrist. The latch
presses down, the panel swings back
to sudden damp shade under palms.
Suitcases jounce along the walk.
Loose porch railing, three steps,
French doors. The key opens
the tiny conch house. We flop
onto chairs, kick off our shoes,
split our cocoons all at once.
iv
Skinks
Stopping in mid-skitter,
clinging to the porch screen,
a brown leaf on legs
(hoping for a mate)
balloons its red throat,
shifts into fifth gear,
flicks out of sight.
Skink forbears watched our
friend Pete add a living room
clerestory, pour visitors wine.
Scent of jasmine, taste
of key lime on warm nights. Fans
fluttered sheer drapes.
Skink ancestors zipped
past Elizabeth Bishop, sipping Café
Bustelo in a nearby house.
Her feet were bare. Her pen
crossed out lines while
her lover slept. Nested
like two forks, we startle
awake. Roosters pierce the air,
a skink careens up the wall,
blows away like cigar-roller’s
smoke, like the steam from Bustelo
we’re about to drink.
v
800 Elizabeth Street
Don’t Piss Off the Fairies
warns the neatly-lettered sign
on a small royal palm,
rough bark made rougher
by super-size spike heels,
black, white, mostly red,
satin sides, killer points.
vi
slant place
warped window sash
light splintered through slats
dracaena leaves like fireworks
uneven table legs
tilted hats
oblique century plant
Cuban rolls slashed
into blunt-ended boats
angled surf meets sloped beach
gritty coral rock
low rays on slow sails
bikinis cut on the bias
vii
Paradise Lost
A guitarist in gauzy pants
plays for vows. Sunset
at the beach. Fade to dusk,
jet home to sleet, wake
to windows in the wrong place.
Half of me hasn’t left.
Stepping into a modern tub,
a flashback of claw feet,
a narrow curtained space.
Daffodils play way too
softly, the way pigeons
coo. I want brassy
frangipani, pelicans
overhead, a quality of light.
White ibis. Six-toed cats.
Poetry
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