It's Still Life

A Rum Dream Sestina

The tide revealed more beach
than I’d ever seen. Dark, brimming
waves drinking in sand, and a black
mood of clouds shrouding tears
and chunks of sky. Gusts taking
to air our towels. Umbrellas. We two

women clamped our knuckled two
hands on our straw hats. The beach
emptied. Holiday-makers ran, taking
shelter in huts roofed with straw brims.
A lifeguard watched a waterspout tear
toward him. Bounced, pouring black

water from the sky, a spin of black-
ness, dark as midwinter night at two
when the world’s asleep. Light tearing
through the roof, sand from the beach
pelting the straw as the roof’s brim
rises and lifts, and the wind takes

possession of our hut. Steals it. Takes
it back, then dresses it in black.
I hear screams and grab at the brim
of my hat. We huddle together, we two
bony-knuckled women from the beach.
Wind howls as dark clouds of tears

empty rain on our heads. A rip, a tear,
and palms fall to the ground. It takes
a minute, maybe two, or ten, for the beach
to settle back into sand, the pitch-black
sky to settle back into light, and our two
hats to float out to sea. Ribboned brims,

spinning and hugging each wave’s brim.
Hats off with the fishes, we shed not a tear.
And it’s 2:00. Today: 2 February 2002.
Not that anyone here believes or takes
notice of omens or prophecies or black
magic. Not here on Cuba’s Varadero Beach.

It was a lazy day in Cuba on Varadero Beach
when my afternoon nap tore fright from a black
rum dream. And so, one more rum I did take.

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