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Marc Swan

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Southern Exposure

We’re flying. Lush green valleys rise
into stiff mountain peaks.
No snowcaps here, ocean
though, as far as the blessed eye
can see deep blue-green
of the Caribbean and breakers,
light and fluffy as meringue,
stand up and kiss the shifting
egg-white sand. We settle
onto the tarmac, custom
shack thick with the whine
and zap of mosquitos, drone
of small black flies circling
in ripening mid-afternoon
heat. It will rain soon.
With the help of a twenty dollar
bill, we pass easily to a downtrodden
'55 Chevy Bel Air, front door
wired shut, windows cracked,
cracked lemon-yellow paint, faded
cloth seats burned with the ash
of a thousand unfiltered Populars.
Grunting beneath the load
of a half million miles, it turns
over with a pop and a crackle
on the second try. We drive
along the Malecon. Blood
red-lipped girls in black
leather miniskirts, halter tops,
stiletto heels, wave to us; abuelas
raise cloudy gray eyes, gnarled
hands to us; dark, thin, tall
men on women s bicycles, tattered
playing cards clothespinned
to bent spokes, pedal by intent
on a thin ray of light beyond
the seawall burning
brighter. As we come close
we watch him ascend
behind a wire parapet, familiar
fatigues, black beret, coarse
silver beard swaying in a tropical breeze.

 

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