Poems by Paula Grenside
Angela - he said
- don't drive so fast. I want
to watch the water-born boys on the gravel, parallel
to the sea, offer tourists pistachios, oranges, peppers,
sell mock Cartier watches with a fly ticking the minutes.
I want to see this face, these legs and rocks --the girls
dripping water from breasts, drops on nipples,
the seller's face flush as he lowers the basketful
of chilled drinks to his waist. - Step on the breaks.
Take me a picture. No, not near this woman made up
like a Mokambo dancer in sequined bikini. Frame me
as I lean on the rock where the surf thrust, forged
you, Venus, head haired with foam, arms cut
by tussle. See? Behind me, the azure expanse shimmers -
a lover who embraces without holding.