by Dov Weinman

Kingfisher

sun-touched men bearing the
marks of their work and lines of
their age set boats out into dawn’s
humid breath before even the
white-breasted kingfisher,
dressed in blue robes, stirs from
silent watch upon cement-wall altar.
sunlight breaks through water’s
surface─
stained glass painting the blue
cathedral’s soft floor. the front
of their wooden skiffs bob up and
down in prayer as the fishermen
kneel at their benches pulling motors.
religion will live and die here,
history drawn in sand erased with
high tide, the sacred no longer found
on the lips of priests, but instead soft
confessions meet their judgment
with the rising and falling of each
wave, it is found knotted in the
fishermens’ nets, and printed upon
the tired hands that work them.

Storm in Sections

I. warning

for that great storm
hear and see the rise
of anticipation
of the toiling surf
and the agitated winds
flutters of expectation
with uncertain heart
beating pulse
waiting and anxious
II. landfall

sky and earth raging
fury fed emptiness
and iron kisses,
saplings bend sideways
ripped by the roots
spit anger
into hurricane winds
burning sorrow is
a letter in your hand
III. aftermath

mercy for
the hopeful youth
the dangerous ones
give anything
take everything
absorbed by
being broken
relief at their own
dismantling

Bodyworkers

hovering over san miguel beers,
with sweat beading around the side
of cigarette stained mustaches and
bloodshot eyes scanning the ocean.
ancient white men, mostly left over
from the army, puddling in plastic
white chairs, slowly fermenting
in place and waiting for either death
or to be led by a small dark hand
into a dimly lit room. some stale
mattresses tossed on the floor,
music jacked up to keep sounds
from escaping into the street.

it’s not a vending machine you assholes.
hey man lower your voice.
fuck my voice she’s like 14.
okay okay just shut up.
i’m just yelling, what’s your psychosis?
you know they pulled funding for sexual health, condoms?
there’s a fucking AIDS epidemic.

a quick spray of cheap perfume,
a listerine mouthwash, another
fumbling hand groping for breasts
that haven’t developed yet, water-
damaged wallpaper blisters and
cracks, and delicate lips mouth
the words take me away from here.