Consciousness, Literature and the Arts

Archive

Volume 2 Number 3, December 2001

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The Last Resort

by

 Ann Wood Fuller

                                                  

How easily the Cayman sky

opened up its dawn, conch-pink,

and we, having already had our first drink

out on our lanai,

 

the heat-crowned palms fanned-out,

the sun-beaten

bougainvillea, a height

just right

for us to go about

 

without our clothes - - -

and you, already bored with the shells, the native straw, the shops

of GeorgeTown dropped,

like the breadfruit drops, into a chair and closed

 

yourself so quickly with your robe against the leeward wind,

which must be

while we were inside we

never felt the heat on our sunburned skin

 

through all those sticky nights

when even the furniture would sweat

and you kept

walking the sandy floor to spite

 

the bed, but somehow through it all I didn't mind

the wind

or, for that matter, the sand- - -

how easily it filled a wound, one grain at a time.

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